


Chance

by Spada2014



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-28 16:45:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 54
Words: 109,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2739710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spada2014/pseuds/Spada2014
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some believe fate is immutable, fixed like the stars in the sky; others believe fate is forged by one's own hands.<br/>A game of Wicked Grace among traveling companions sets events into motion, prompting Grey Warden Jayne Cousland to consider her notorious companion, assassin Zevran Arainai, in a new light. </p><p>Story explores their deepening relationship and friendships with the other members of their group. It picks up at the Brecilian Forest before Landsmeet, as they seek to convince the Dalish to honor the Grey Warden treaties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story began as a one-shot and ended up evolving into something much larger...I always liked the depth and complexity of the Zevran romance in DA:O and wanted to explore that in greater detail. I use events and dialogue from the game to guide and propel some of the action. As always, I'm open to constructive criticism; I'm relatively new to fan fic and want to improve my writing, so do reach out if you feel like it!
> 
> Another thing: Let's agree off the bat that I *know* that dialogue is supposed to be indented. Let's pretend it is formatted like that here! My spacebar and fingers thank you in advance for your generosity.
> 
> PS- No Shale. Sorry. I didn't get to Shale until later playthroughs of the game because I hadn't gotten my hands on the downloadable content (I know! But in my defense-- no indent, either! We have established my relative incompetence in certain technical matters). It didn't feel as natural to write her in, even though I liked her bunches.
> 
> PPS-I rated this as "M" just in case. Things don't get really explicit- much of what goes on between the sheets is implied or hinted at, but I like to have options. Wait...where are you going??
> 
> Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it! Cheers!

"I fold," Jayne Cousland announced, placing her cards down before her. Neither Zevran nor Leliana seemed to notice.

_Serves me right for thinking a game of Wicked Grace with two trained assassins would be 'fun.'_

She liked to play cards— it was a regular pastime for her growing up and it always had been entertaining. She'd picked up a deck of cards during their travels and back in the early days, when it had been only Morrigan, Alistair, and her, she and Alistair used to play the occasional game for distraction, to delay sleep and the inevitable darkness that encroached on their dreams.

"Would you like to play with us?" she'd asked them amicably.  _The more, the merrier,_ she imagined.

She couldn't have been more mistaken.

"Wicked Grace?" Zevran asked, sitting between Alistair and her.

"Orlesian rules," Leliana demanded.

"I would have it no other way," he deferred charmingly.

"Good! I have a deck back in my tent."

"Errm…What are we playing?" Alistair asked.

"A betting game. You'll learn quickly!"

Alistair glanced sideways at Jayne, who shook her head, just as puzzled. They'd been playing the usual games she'd played as a teenager: Fox's Den, Carillon, Siege. Leliana returned with a square wooden box she set down on the blanket which they were all seated upon. She flicked the lid open and handed the set of cards to Zevran.

"These are beautiful," he complimented her, inspecting the cards.

"Thank you," she grinned. "They were a gift, long ago."

"They're in remarkable shape…no blood stains even!" he teased.

Leliana smirked. Alistair's eyes widened.

"So! How do we play?" Jayne asked.

Before her were elaborately painted images depicting snakes, daggers, angels, musical notes, and warriors clad in armor.

 _How intriguing!_ she had foolishly thought.

They played a few innocent matches together, as Zevran and Leliana explained the rules. Five cards per player. One card discarded per turn. One card added. The objective was to have the highest number of matched cards. Angels were the most valuable suit, Daggers were the least. The musical notes were Songs. The warriors were Knights. When the Angel of Death— a card framed with a swirl of tiny black roses and a winged skeleton holding a scythe— turned up, the game was over and all players had to reveal their cards.

 _I think I am getting the hang of this!_ Jayne remarked to herself, organizing her cards by rank in her hands.

"Shall we make a little wager? To make it more…exciting?" Zevran suggested casually, placing two coins at the center of the blanket.

That had been almost an hour ago. They hadn't been playing for twenty minutes before Alistair declared himself out of the game by tossing the cards down in distress.

"How is this possible? Can you explain this? I tossed out the Serpent of Avarice, Leliana tossed out the Serpent of Decay…but you had all four Serpent cards when the Angel of Death came up. That is cheating, in my book!"

"Did you see me cheat?" Zevran asked amiably.

"No— but…it's obvious!" Alistair blurted out.

"If it were obvious, then you would have seen me do it, no?" Zevran replied.

"Alistair— Winning at Wicked Grace takes more than luck. It's a game of skill," Leliana attempted to explain.

"When you say 'skill,' what exactly are you referring to?"

She glanced at Zevran as if hoping he would step in. He grinned lazily, flipping one of his newly earned coins.

"Would it be 'cheating,' by any chance? Is that what you mean by skill?" Alistair insisted.

Leliana tilted her head and shrugged innocently.

"How…How is that fair? Can someone tell me?" he complained. "Isn't it a better game when you leave it up to chance?"

"Some of us would rather make our own luck," Zevran winked.

Alistair marched off to his tent in a huff.

"Wicked Grace indeed! Stupid gallows game—" he could be heard mumbling.

"Warden?" Zevran nodded, dealing her a card. She hesitatingly plunked down three coins. "Ah," he grinned approvingly.

Now, after a few rounds, she had been humiliated down to one coin. She inhaled deeply and wondered which of the two before her was more ruthless: the Antivan raised by whores and murderers on her left, or the Orlesian schooled by corrupt and unscrupulous nobles on her right. Down to two players, the game had acquired a frenetic pace. Zevran and Leliana flipped cards faster than her eyes could follow. Cards flew on and off the small mounds before them, yet the discard pile never seemed to increase significantly.

Zevran pulled yet another card from the deck, stared at it, and pointedly turned it over.

The Angel of Death.

"Ah, the time of reckoning."

The small fan of cards Leliana held contracted in her agile hands into a slim row she cleanly splayed across the blanket.

Four Daggers.

Just as she finished revealing her cards, she swiftly caught Zevran's hand midair. He'd attempted to pull a last card from the discard pile.

"No, no…" Leliana censured him sweetly. "Let's see your cards now."

Zevran sighed and tossed the cards down, as if admitting defeat. Leliana ventured a triumphant smile.

Four Knights.

Her eyes narrowed as Zevran let out a victorious whoop before grabbing the coins at the center.

"Jayne, would you please shuffle the deck for the next round and deal the cards?" she suggested, eyeing her lost gold, dragged to Zevran's corner of the blanket.

"Again?" he cried amusedly. "I'm game," he grinned, leaning in.

 _I can't follow any of this,_ Jayne sniffed, grabbing the cards and clumsily stacking them into a disheveled vertical pile. Both expert players watched her with pained expressions as she sloppily attempted to split the mound in half and shuffle the cards awkwardly and slowly.

"Shall we bet in earnest now?" Zevran proposed, languidly rubbing his neck as he observed several cards spill out from Jayne's mixing pile.

"Why not?" Leliana replied jovially, gingerly pinching the last column of her glinting coins, placing it squarely in the middle.

Zevran pretended to be preoccupied with counting his earnings before looking down at the wager.

"What is this?" he scoffed. "Even Hurlocks carry more gold than that."

Jayne turned to Leliana.

"Perhaps we should call it a night?" she asked appeasingly. But Leliana shot him a dismissive glance.

"I presume you have something worthwhile to put up, then?"

He stretched and reached beneath his shirt as if to scratch his chest, but instead reached into the small pouch he carried around his neck at all times. When he pulled his hand out, he was holding a small shiny object.

"I've had this for many years," he explained, twirling a delicate golden earring between his fingers. Little diamonds encrusted in the small gold hoop sparkled in the firelight. "It's striking, isn't it?" He raised it to their eye levels.

"Are those yellow diamonds?" Leliana asked, her curiosity piqued. "May I see it closer?"

He offered it to her, but just as she reached for the earring, he quickly dropped it down between his fingers into his fist. It reappeared less than a second later in his other hand. Jayne audibly gasped and for a brief moment he was distracted by the expression of amazement on her face. He shook his head at her and laughed.

"Warden, the face you are making right now is too much," he finally said, pausing to catch his breath. "Here," he stretched his hand towards her and casually tapped the bottom of her chin with his fingers. "Close your mouth. I like you more as the fearless Gray Warden than the impressionable Fereldan bumpkin."

Jayne shooed his hand away irritably. Leliana rose, lightly brushing off her legs and told them she would return, as she made her way back to her tent.

"That's right, Lelibella…go dig through your valuables…and don't come back with some tacky Chantry trinkets," he murmured as he waved.

He sprawled across the blanket, propping himself up on an elbow.

"Do you want to play a quick hand while we wait?"

"I have nothing of value left to bet. I am down to one coin!" she complained.

"Oh, but you do…" he offered suggestively.

"Please spare me. Do you really think I'd wager myself? Especially when I have seen how the two of you play?" she asked him bluntly.

"Wager yourself?…" Zevran appeared to be mulling the possibility. "I hadn't thought of that…but I like it," he responded with false naiveté. He grabbed her foot and squeezed it. "I will put myself up for our wager, too! It's a win-win. Shall we just skip the game altogether and go back to your tent?" he purred.

Jayne exhaled audibly from her nose as she shook her head. She avoided his stare, his warm amber eyes, filled with mischief. She wished she could match his nonchalant flirtatiousness, but she was well aware that she had never been good at bluffing— at any games.

Leliana came back with an ornate red leather sheath. She pulled an elegant black dagger from it and displayed the weapon before Zevran's covetous eyes.

"It really is quite a weapon," he remarked sincerely. "Why do you never use it?"

"I was saving it for a special occasion," she replied enigmatically.

"What? You plan to stab me after I win it?" he teased.

Leliana raised her eyes at him.

"What makes you think you will win this time?" she inquired defiantly.

"Just a hunch," he answered, running his fingers provocatively through the modest pile of coins he had amassed.

"Put your money where your mouth is," she challenged him, tossing the scabbard at the center. The mood shifted. Zevran cupped his gold and dumped it next to the scabbard. He turned to Jayne and offered her the earring.

"Would you hold this for me, Warden?" He faced Leliana again and declared, "May the best man win."

"Wherever he may be—" she quipped back, annoyed.

He took the deck and offered the cards to her.

"Please," he gestured encouragingly.

She calmly collected the cards and fluidly riffle shuffled them a few times. She then proceeded to deal the new hand. Jayne pulled her legs up to her chest and hugged her knees with her arms.

 _This is not going to end well,_ she worried.  _How did this escalate so quickly?_ she wondered, glancing at Zevran out of the corner of her eyes.

She had to admit he was fascinating to watch. Whether he was executing his deadly attacks in combat, or simply gesturing during a conversation, his movements were fluid and graceful. At that precise moment, he was absorbed in his cards. Her eyes ran over his chiseled face, the full lips, long lashes, then the light, sandy colored hair that had been casually arranged into a short, lopsided ponytail. He wore a plain white undershirt and she could make out the outline of the small pouch beneath it, hanging from the length of rawhide around his tanned neck. She became aware that she was openly staring when he looked up and caught her, his bright amber eyes blinking in slight surprise. She lowered her gaze, feeling her face flush and braced herself for the inevitable teasing that would ensue, but he said nothing.

They were rapidly discarding cards and just as deftly replacing them. Jayne attempted to keep track of their movements, but she couldn't trust her eyes: cards moved strangely, slipping beneath piles when they had been tossed on top, disappearing between fingers and reappearing as if pulled from a fresh pile. Zevran had just plucked a replacement card when Leliana suddenly grabbed the dagger and plunged it forcefully at what appeared to be his hand.

"Brasca!" he shouted, startled, as Jayne had futilely tried to grab her arm.

The dagger landed exactly between his splayed indicator and middle fingers. Zevran took pause and faced Leliana with a puzzled expression.

"Put it back," she replied coolly. "Don't cheat so brazenly," she chastised him. "It's insulting."

He snickered, raising both palms at her appeasingly. The Angel of Death was tucked between the edge of his sleeve and the bottom of his wrist. Leliana pulled it out hastily and handed it to Jayne.

"Put it somewhere in the deck," she pointed to the large, unturned bunch of cards. Jayne attempted to cup her hand over the stack to conceal her motions as she tucked the card back into the bottom of the mound.

_Merciful Maker, is this even a card game anymore? These two are going for each other's jugular and I will have to intervene before they succeed._

Both players appeared to redouble their efforts and the flashy sleight-of-hand spectacle continued, with one or the other pausing only to consider options or confirm a decision. She noticed Leliana's stern expression ease slightly. Just as she wondered whether or not she had a hand she was pleased with, Zevran pulled a card from the top of the deck and announced, "I have the Angel of Death. The game is over."

Jayne and Leliana stared incredulously.

_What? I placed it at the end of the deck!_

Leliana frowned as she pat the edge of the blanket near her cards.

"How is that possible?" she asked with alarm. "I thought I had—" but she stopped herself from saying anything further, much to Zevran's amusement.

_Had what?_

As Zevran stared back down at his cards, Leliana glared at Jayne in frustration. She allowed her to watch as she deftly pulled the card she had hidden beneath the blanket and added it discreetly to her hand. She showed it to Jayne, a grimace on her face. It was the Song of Autumn.

Jayne suddenly understood:  _Sometime between plucking the card from Zevran's sleeve and handing it to me, Leliana palmed the Angel for herself to use and handed me a different card!_ _Very devious!_ She looked at Zevran.  _But_ s _omehow, before Leliana took the card from his sleeve, he managed to swap it out for a different one. Doubly devious._

Four Knights were aligned in the row Leliana had laid out before them. She raised her eyebrows expectantly. Zevran nodded thoughtfully and pondered the hand he held closely before his face. He breathed in deeply and reached for the earring in Jayne's hand, contemplating it silently. He shook his head sadly and Jayne could see suppressed excitement begin to manifest itself in Leliana's face.

Zevran collected his cards, tapping them on the blanket. Jayne expected him to fold, shake his head some more, make some pesky comment to diminish Leliana's victory.

Instead, he leaned towards Jayne, and showing her only the back of his cards, asked, "Can you blow on them, please? For good luck."

Jayne wondered how that would help and blew on them hesitantly. Zevran turned back to Leliana, who was as curious about the little spectacle as was Jayne. He proceeded to reveal his cards:

The Angel of Charity.

The Angel of Fortitude.

The Angel of Truth.

The Angel of Death.

The four Angels: the toughest— and most valuable— combination to achieve, since the Angel of Death was the card that would end the game.

Leliana finally snapped, "You cheat too much!"

"How is that?" he said sharply.

Leliana opened her mouth to protest, but sat back, her arms crossed. In order to expose him she would have to admit she had tried to palm the Angel. Instead, she composed herself, and after a quiet moment, pulled the dagger from the ground, sheathed it, and wordlessly offered it to Zevran.

He clasped his hands together and grinned patronizingly at her.

"How about this: tell me what you know I want to hear and I won't collect my winnings."

She was taken aback.

"What do you mean?" she asked earnestly.

"Say: Zevran, you truly are great…The better of the two of us."

Leliana frowned.

"Goodnight," she replied crossly, seizing the dagger and storming off to her tent.

The campfire cast flickering shadows all around them. Zevran sighed.

"I couldn't have done it without you, my utterly gorgeous Warden."

"What are you talking about? I still don't know what just happened."

"It is very simple," he explained, collecting the cards and neatly dropping them into the box. "It was magic. You are magic— you blew on my cards and I won, just like that," he spoke to her in a low voice, sweeping a strand of hair away from her face.

 _Command yourself, Jayne,_ she ordered herself, when jolted by his fingers as they brushed against her cheek _._

"I still don't get it," she grumbled. "You cheated…She cheated…Why bother?"

He moved his face closer, peering into her eyes.

"Who cheated better, though?"

It dawned upon her then. It had never been about the wagers, the winnings. It had been about  _skill_. Leliana had said so, hadn't she? Wicked Grace was a game of skill: who was faster, who was more cunning, who gauged the opponent better, knowing when to strike and when to defend?

That had been no card game! That had been a duel! And Leliana had retreated to her tent to nurse her wounds, now that the pecking order between them had been established.

The eyes before her were those of a skilled predator. Clever, calculating, and determined. She stared into them.

_What about this easy playfulness, the affectionate teasing?…Could it be fake? All lies?_

She remembered his words, days ago, recounting stories about his Antivan past:  _I grew up among those who sold the illusion of love…_

_Is he playing a game with me? Why?_

"Warden?" he said, sitting back, a tinge of concern in his voice.

Jayne could not respond. A sickening hopelessness began to overcome her, as if one sad thought was strung to another, and another, until the floodgates threatened to burst. His brows furrowed almost imperceptibly, but then he smiled impishly.

"I can think of something else you could blow on that would be quite magical…" he stated with perverse delight. Her hand shot out instinctively, seeking to slap him on the head.

"Aiie!" he interjected, deflecting her attack. " I was only trying to be helpful! Since you are such a disgraceful card player, I thought perhaps we could stick to the basics…"

The strange spell had been broken and she felt safe again, the outrageousness of his words bringing her back to a familiar place between them.

"I'm going to bed," she announced, standing up. One look at his arched eyebrow and she added emphatically, "Alone."

"Is that a lament? Perhaps…an invitation?"

"A warning," she added tartly.

He laughed.

Back in her small tent, she went through the motions of preparing herself for sleep in the dim lighting before lying back into her bedroll. It was fruitless, however: sleep eluded her. She found she slept less and less. Her slumber was restless. Instead of finding herself falling asleep, it was as if everything she struggled to keep silent within breached whatever defenses she had propped up. The deep-seated fears, worries, grief, and hurt all brimmed up, drowning any logic or rationale. At first she had blamed the Taint. The visions of dank, putrid burrows, and ancient words hissing through her head haunted her in the beginning. Alistair had explained it was their connection with the Darkspawn.

"You can let it crush you or you can use it to your advantage. You'll learn to block it out."

For the most part, she had. What Alistair couldn't teach her was how to still her mind from racing back to Highever or Ostagar. Lying there in the tent, she relived hell, again and again. A sharp cold chilled her from within and she shivered. Gathering her blanket around herself, she emerged from the tent seeking the warmth of the campfire.

Zevran was still sitting outside, a blade of grass tucked between his lips as he turned his head over his shoulder to watch her walk towards him. He observed her with curiosity. She settled next to him and they remained in a comfortable silence for several minutes, staring into the fire.

"No sleep again?" he finally asked.

She wanly shook her head.

"This won't do. You'll be so tired, I'll have to prop up your arms when you fight the Archdemon," he grumbled. He wiped his hands on his black breeches. "Would you allow me to do one thing for you? It will help you sleep."

She searched his face for the customary mischief, but he was being sincere, as far as she could tell, and waiting for her permission.

"No tricks," she answered. He reached for her shoulders and carefully pulled her down on the blanket they were sitting on, resting her head sideways on his leg. He placed one hand on her arm.

"Close your eyes," he whispered, looking down at her. She shut her eyes tightly, her heart beating rapidly. He caressed her arm soothingly, reassuringly. "Is this alright?" he asked.

"Yes," she admitted. He cleared his throat and began to sing very softly in his language. It was a lilting song he sang rather badly. Jayne stifled a giggle and he paused abruptly, flicking her on the forehead.

"Sssh!" he cautioned her. "Rude Fereldan. I'm serenading you."

"I'm sorry," she chuckled. "It's… a lovely song."

"You lie like a fishmonger at the end of the market day…That's fine, because this is a very dirty little Antivan song, and you don't know that," he grinned and resumed his singing.

Jayne smiled. The warmth of the fire, the gentleness of his touch, and even the faint singing, were a shield, a barrier of sorts against the despair that threatened to close in on her soul.

 _Illusion or not,_ she thought, as she drifted off,  _I'll take my chances with whatever this is._


	2. Chapter 2

The cart was packed and Bodahn led his mare to the road. Alistair stood at the edge of the clearing they had laid their camp in for the past few nights, ushering them onwards. They had a long journey ahead of them until they could make camp again and were not sure whether or not they were heading in the right direction.

"Jayne and I will lead. Leliana, Morrigan, and Zevran: take the rear."

"Gladly. But whose rear shall I be taking? Yours?" Zevran replied saucily.

Some laughter broke out among them. Jayne noticed Wynne had to turn her face away to conceal a discreet grin and even Sten, despite his stern demeanor, made an odd, guttural bark, as if clearing his throat.

"I walked right into that one, didn't I?" Alistair mumbled to her. "I believe he's assassinated more people with his bad double-entendres than anything else."

Jayne smirked as she unfolded and shook out their map. They had heard from a group of refugees headed to Denerim several days before that the Dalish caravan they were seeking settled inside the Brecilian forest farther south from where they were. She hoped the Dalish would honor the old treaty and join them like the mages and dwarves had agreed to. Every bit of support mattered, and not just to fight the Blight; she needed to confront Loghain in Denerim. She knew she would have to participate in the Landsmeet and it was of the essence that when she challenged Loghain's claim to rule, she not only have the evidence needed to damn him before all the nobles, but that she give them a viable alternative: a united Ferelden under the rule of Maric's only remaining heir— a Grey Warden who'd been able to unify the land's traditional allies during its greatest time of need.

She and Alistair had spoken about his becoming king many times. At first he'd been reluctant to even consider the possibility, but Jayne persisted. There was still much of the Chantry boy in him; he had come to believe that as a bastard, he had no right to assert any rights to the throne. He was deferent to all the noble hierarchies in Ferelden, and believed his rightful place, had he never joined the Grey Wardens, should be a marginal one. Still, if she was going to die defending Ferelden, she wanted to believe she was leaving her country in the hands of a trustworthy, honorable, and just ruler. The fact Alistair hesitated so much to accept such a fate made her conviction, that he was the rightful heir, stronger. After all, as her father had always said, "It is those who claim they are worthy of power that often deserve it least." Her father, she remembered, firmly believed that any leadership position was a great responsibility. "To serve Ferelden," he'd remind Fergus and her sternly, anytime he felt they had behaved in an entitled or unbecoming way to their station in Highever.

Echoes of a happier past made her melancholy as they trudged the steep paths. They had been walking for most of the day, she realized, with only short breaks. As she looked around, she took in the tired and sullen faces. Conversation had ceased a while ago as each person fell into a taciturn silence, either absorbed in thoughts or concentrating on getting through the trek.

"Should we stop?" she asked Alistair. He peered over his shoulder at their haggard group.

"There is a lake or a pond farther ahead— about three miles," he said, pointing to a road sloping up a cresting hill.

Exhausted as they were, she was glad they had covered as much ground as they had; Alistair calculated they were close to the border between the Hinterlands and Southron Hills. In another day or so, they should be able to find the Brecilian Passage, and from there, travel along the coast seeking signs of the Dalish. As she examined the map, she grinned at their winding trajectory. They had been careful to avoid any Imperial Highways and any roads that were too remote. Between Darkspawn and Loghain's guards, their travels had literally become voyages off the beaten path. Since they were resting for one night only at that stop, they left Bodhan's cart mostly packed. A gust of wind raised leaves and dirt, rustling through the trees and low lying bushes.

"Feels like it is going to rain," Morrigan stated, a grimace on her face as she examined the sky. The others stared at her warily; she was seldom wrong about any weather predictions.

They put up a few of the tents, grudgingly agreeing to sharing the cramped spaces as best they could. Three people was the absolute maximum each tent could possibly fit. They had worked out that one tent would go to Oghren and Sten ("We can count more or less the size of three men between the two of them," Alistair had reasoned), another to Bodhan, Sandal, and Zevran, a third to Wynne, Alistair, and Morrigan ("Just like my Templar days!" Alistair had interjected sarcastically) and the last one for her, Leliana, and Rune, her faithful Mabari.

"I want to request a reassignment," Zevran protested. "Bodhan and Slipper snore—"

"SANDAL!" they yelled.

"Yes, well, he still snores," he completed.

"I'll go in the tent with them, it don't bother me none," Oghren offered.

"Then I want to share the tent with Sten," Morrigan stated. When faced with puzzled expressions, she continued, "He is quiet. I don't feel like listening to any prattling."

Alistair glared.

"You can share our tent," Wynne said to Zevran.

"Are you sure?" he sidled up to her, gallantly raising her hand to his lips. "I do not know if I can be trusted in the presence of such loveliness…"

"I'm sure Alistair can defend himself," Wynne retorted.

"No offense, but his feet smell," Alistair complained.

"No offense, but you are a prissy man," Zevran countered.

"What is your preferred weapon for assassination? Your used socks?"

"Your frilly undergarments," Zevran said, gesturing obscenely. "My marks die of laughter."

"Leliana, Wynne, and Zevran can share a tent; Alistair, Rune, and I will share the other!' Jayne finally interrupted.

Her voice had an edge of impatience and everyone quieted down and went about their business. In the nearby distance, thunder rumbled ominously. The first drops began to pelt the canvas heavily, and they all scurried off to their shelters. As Jayne retreated into the tent, briefly surveying their makeshift camp, she caught Zevran's resentful glare from the tent across, just as the door flap fell.

She tossed her bedroll on the ground hoping that the tent's tightly woven and waxy canvas would hold up to the storm. A damp cold rose from the floor and she cursed the thin bedroll. The wind buffeted the tent walls as ribbons of rain whipped the roof. Rune buried his nose in his outstretched front paws and sighed heavily.

"Are you angry?" Alistair asked.

She was and opened her mouth to tell him so when she noticed a pinpoint of light outside. She stomped to the tent's opening, and undoing the ties, stuck her head out in the rain and shouted at the top of her lungs:

"NO CANDLES! NO LIGHTS WHATSOEVER!"

The light faded and darkness enveloped them.

"We are sitting ducks in this muck! Do they want to attract attention to our camp?"

Alistair rolled out his bed mat and attempted to make himself fit on the narrow rectangle. The cold clung to them, even beneath their layers of clothes and heavy blankets as they lay in silence listening to the storm.

"Alistair," she whispered after a long time.

The blanket rustled as he turned his head towards her.

"It's at times like these that I feel the smallest, the most helpless."

Tears welled in her eyes. She heard more rustling beside her. She remained still as his hand bridged the gap between them and brushed the side of one of her breasts. He continued patting around her aimlessly.

"What are you doing?" she asked calmly.

With Alistair she knew better; she always afforded him the benefit of the doubt.

"I am reaching for your hand. Where is it?" he whispered confusedly.

She blinked back the tears, suppressing a laugh. She reached for his wandering hand and held it tightly.

"I wish I had something brilliantly inspiring to tell you right now," he said. "Something to allay your fears. I never expected to find myself in such a wretched mess. I definitely would have passed on the whole Grey Warden experience, if I had known," he joked.

"Would you really?" Jayne asked, genuinely curious.

He breathed in and remained quiet for a moment.

"No…Probably not. Duncan was…" his voice trailed off. She squeezed his hand. "He," Alistair finally continued, "would know what to say to you right now."

"This is a nightmare," she murmured. "One day I had a home, a family…It's all been taken away. It is as if the Maker were trying to burn me to the ground and salt my ashes. Sometimes I feel…It is all too much, Alistair. There are only two of us. How can we do this?"

"I don't know about that," he replied.

"What part?"

"There are several men and women just outside who have tied their fate to ours. Of course, they may be squabbling and kicking in their minuscule tents right now and cursing our names under their breaths, but we are most definitely not alone."

Jayne listened.

"We have somehow managed to convince the Templars, the Mages, and even the Dwarves to honor their alliance with the Grey Wardens. This is bigger than you. It is bigger than I. Those people are not pledging their alliance to some decaying pieces of parchment. They aren't only bound to us because of the oaths made by ancestors they never knew. They will follow us to fight an Archdemon because we offer them hope."

She knew he could not see her face, but she was smiling.

"Spoken like a true king, my lord," she responded admiringly.

"I could get used to that," he chuckled.

"I can't sleep," she confided.

"I know."

"I keep awakening, startled."

"It isn't much better for me," he admitted. "But I find I can still hold the nightmares at bay."

"How?"

"Little things," he said.

"Like what?"

"I don't know— there isn't one thing, exactly. Sometimes it works better than others."

"I don't understand.

"I find there are times I can block them out so they are merely background noise."

She sat up.

"You have to tell me how you do it."

"Well, Duncan was the one who told me— that it is the small things, the things that give you pleasure, that you love, that help distract you from being constantly in contact with the Darkspawn. Duncan always advised me to cling to who I am, not to forget the things I value. He explained that the Taint could be like an undercurrent, dragging you farther away from yourself and closer to that collective hell those creatures lurk in."

Jayne pondered this.

"And what is it that helps you, specifically?" she asked.

"Cheese," he deadpanned.

She chuckled.

"Frilly underwear?' she joked.

"That bastard!" he confided. "I mean, I know we are BOTH bastards, technically, but he embraces the definition fully."

"You have to agree that he brings a much needed levity to our group, though," she reasoned. "He can be a welcome distraction."

"Right…Who do I want to kick in the balls more? Let me see…Archdemon…Zevran…Hmmm…It's a close call."

Outside, lightning flashed, followed by an explosive crash of thunder. Rune whimpered.

"It's so cold," Jayne shivered. "I wish this storm would pass."

"Shall we?…Like in the early days?" Alistair asked. "Come," he lifted his blanket and pat his bedroll. Jayne rose to her knees and dragged her mat next to his.

"Rune!" she called. The Mabari hopped up and Jayne could feel the slight breeze from his tail's wag.

"Lie down here, boy!" she encouraged him. He stepped gingerly over the blankets, burrowing between Alistair and her. Alistair threw his arm over the dog.

"An exceptional source of warmth."

She reached her arm over Rune, clasping Alistair's shoulder.

"Thank you, Alistair," she said softly.

"Don't mention it," he replied. They were silent for a minute before he spoke again. "No, really—don't mention it at all. Ever. I am cuddling a naked Mabari. Think he'll still respect me in the morning?" Rune wagged his tail again. Jayne closed her eyes.

_I am holding my two best friends close to me. Here, in this moment. This love is happiness. Take that, Archdemon._


	3. Chapter 3

Jayne grimly reached up to her nose.

_Good. It's still there._

She withdrew her hand; her fingers were tinged with slippery blood. It trickled down her throat, raw and briny.

_Get up._

She was aware of her name being shouted in the distance, but the hulking Ogre had turned his attention back to her. He'd raced up to them after they'd cut down the band of Hurlocks that attacked near the path to the forest's entrance, swinging his log of an arm and sending her hurtling into a wall of rocks.

The monstrous creature steadied its beady eyes on her, as she scrambled back to her feet and raised her sword.

_I hate Ogres._

A small volley of arrows hissed in a tight arc across the air and into the Ogre's back. He roared, visibly irritated, but began to stomp back towards her. She grasped the pommel of her sword tightly, gauging how she should attack. She had to wait for him to swing first and either strike at him hard or run beyond his reach. She did not want him to make contact with her again and send her flying against the rocks. Her vision blurred slightly and her eye began to sting.

Behind the creature, Alistair and Morrigan raced up the slope and halted. Morrigan extended her arms beside her and as if straining against some invisible force, pulled them together again, hands splayed outwards, the air before them wavering slightly before igniting. A burst of flame unfurled against the Ogre's legs. He swiveled around, rocking his fist at them. They leapt back.

"We need to distract him! Get him out of here!" Alistair yelled.

Sten invested against him after making a running start, but even he had only managed to make the Ogre stumble backwards. Oghren spun around, releasing his heavy maul towards his head. It slammed into the side of his horn, causing him to stagger sideways a bit. He was now facing the others and getting angrier. She felt a firm hand reach for her arm.

_Wynne!_

The woman pursed her lips gravely as she looked into Jayne's face.

She signaled for them to slip away, but as they moved to circle the rocks, the Ogre whirled around once more. Wynne grasped her arm protectively and defiantly staked her staff between them.

Before the beast could react and lunge, Jayne's field of vision was obscured by a flash of light golden colored hair standing before them. Facing the Ogre, Zevran shouted,

"Come at me!"

The Ogre waved his arm as if shooing a fly away. Zevran deftly ducked away from the sweeping motion and stood at his right, plunging a dagger into his flank. The monster let out a furious howl. Zevran agilely stepped behind him, forcing the creature to turn in his pursuit. He reached into his belt and pulled out what appeared to be two slivers of silver tied to some fine string. He continued to call out to the Ogre provokingly. The Ogre lunged at him, but he jumped forward, tumbling between his legs and stabbing his calves with the silver slivers. Rising immediately and ignoring the growl of surprise from the Ogre, he circled around him swiftly, binding the string tightly around his legs.

"Leliana!" Zevran shouted.

Arrows soared through the air once more, hitting the Ogre's twisted torso as he struggled to right himself. His legs were constricted by the string. As he reached down and began to struggle with the ties around him, Alistair charged at him, his longsword pointed squarely at his abdomen. Sten attacked at the same time, and Morrigan raised her hands once more, ready for another fire strike. Unable to move freely, the Ogre made a motion to rush them headfirst, but clumsily stumbled to his knees instead.

Jayne shook herself loose from Wynne's grasp and ran to him, throwing herself against his back. Struck unexpectedly, he crashed into the ground. Jayne climbed the Ogre's back and he attempted to buck her off him. Digging her heels into the creature's flesh, she raised her sword over her head and plunged it cleanly into the back of his neck.

_Die!_

The Ogre thrashed, blood spurting in every direction.

"Is it dead?" she cried.

They stood around her, but instead of staring at the immobile Ogre, all eyes were fastened on her.

She could no longer hold her head up, she realized foggily, as it lolled weakly to her shoulder, a dizzying torpor overcoming her as her vision faded.

"Alistair," she began, before collapsing.


	4. Chapter 4

"Eat," Alistair ordered impatiently.

"I don't feel hungry," Jayne groggily explained, attempting to pull the bandages Wynne had wrapped tightly around her head and over her left eye.

She had no idea how long she'd been unconscious for— apparently long enough for them to carry her back and travel a few miles north. She had awoken in the cart, between sloppily bundled tents, bedrolls, and two small chests of Bodhan's almost depleted wares, jostled and shaken, the pain in her head nauseating.

They had abandoned traveling through the Brecilian Passage, the fear of being overrun by Darkspawn very real after their encounter. They set up camp hastily, unsure of how to proceed. Night fell around the campfire as they went about their usual chores. Wynne had just returned from giving Sten an unguent for the deep bruise on his shoulder.

"He told me Qunari have no use for our healing ways," Wynne complained.

They observed from the front of her tent as Sten sniffed and poked the unguent suspiciously.

"Just rub a little bit on, you stubborn man," Wynne pleaded quietly.

She turned her attention to Jayne, sitting listlessly before her. Clasping her hands together, she softly recited an incantation. A cool tingle overcame her, as if pins and needles were spreading across her head, followed by a slight buzzing when Wynne placed her hands over her head. Morrigan observed Wynne with interest.

Rune's head rested on Jayne's lap, his large brown eyes staring into hers plaintively. She pat him reassuringly.

_I'm alright, boy. I live to fight again._

Wynne examined her handiwork carefully.

"That Ogre threw you against the rock wall hard. You are fortunate the cut wasn't further down, or there could've been permanent damage to your eye." She laid her hands over Jayne's forehead, the familiar coolness bursting forth. "I'm bringing the swelling down the best I can."

"Thank you, Wynne," she finally spoke.

The woman had a kindly, confident manner, like a mother dispensing care.

"Thank you, Alistair!" Alistair interjected in a falsetto, thrusting the bowl of soup at her again.

She relented, grabbing the bowl.

"You should at least drink," Wynne advised her.

Morrigan stepped forward.

"Can I try doing that?" she asked.

"No!" Alistair yelled. "You'll accidentally incinerate her."

Morrigan glared at Alistair with disdain.

"I never do anything by accident."

Wynne waved her over.

"I could use your help."

Morrigan recited the words she'd heard Wynne utter, and the woman nodded, adding a few more, and positioned her hands. Jayne's eyes fluttered as she felt the humming cold over her head again. It was stronger and more intense.

"Gently, now. Light hands," Wynne directed, looking over Morrigan's black feathered shoulders.

Leliana and Zevran made their way to them.

"We checked the perimeter and nothing seems amiss."

"Is anyone else hurt?" Jayne remembered to ask.

"No, dear. Sten's shoulder is bruised; maybe he has dislocated it. I don't know. He won't let me near it," Wynne stated with a frown, noticing her pot of unguent abandoned on the ground.

"Zevran is complaining about his hooks," Leliana stated.

"What hooks?"

"The two hooks he stabbed into the Ogre's calves," she continued.

"Antivan Fishing Hooks," he explained. Seeing that no one seemed the more enlightened, he continued, "They're not really for fishing, you see…They are more like…tools of the trade. I can only find a replacement set in Rialto."

"Enjoy your trip," Alistair remarked.

"I would, very much— that is, up until the first garrote over my neck."

They stood in silence, observing Morrigan working on Jayne.

"What a terrible day," Leliana sighed, sitting down.

"And what a terrible dinner," Zevran noted, taking a whiff of the stew sitting in the small bowl in Jayne's hands. "I can think of swifter and more humane deaths."

"We are all doing the best we can," Wynne interrupted, smiling amiably at Alistair, their chef.

She placed her hands on her back and winced as she attempted to roll her shoulders backwards.

"Maker, I am getting too old for this," she complained.

Zevran put down the spoon he'd taken from the bowl in order to inspect the drab colored stew.

"My dear Wynne, let me alleviate your discomfort," he suggested, walking up behind her.

Wynne glanced back at him, almost plaintively.

"My back has been bothering me since yesterday's walk."

He nodded, understandingly.

"You should ride in the cart," Alistair stated.

Wynne shook her head.

"The cart is such a boon— I wouldn't dare overburden that poor mare. She has to pull a heavy load as it is."

Zevran held her arm as she lowered herself into a sitting position. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously.

 _Aren't we a winning group,_  Jayne remarked to herself.  _One Ogre almost put us out of commission._

He grasped Wynne by the shoulders and squeezed them tightly, pressing his thumbs into her shoulder blades. Wynne cried out faintly when he first applied pressure, but Zevran continued to knead her steadily, eventually working his nimble fingers down her spine. He pressed on her lower back with the heel of his hand and she let out a contented sigh.

"That feels so much better," she said, gratefully. "You are very skilled at that."

"I'm skilled at many things…" he smiled smugly, working his way back up.

"I will take your word for it!" Wynne chuckled.

"I've never had a dissatisfied customer," he insinuated.

"Except for Loghain," Alistair added.

" He too, would have been most satisfied if he had hired me for a massage instead," Zevran replied, unfazed.

Jayne observed those shapely hands moving so purposefully over Wynne's back. They were firm, muscular hands, but also elegant— the fingers were long, the nails kept short and tidy.  _Tools of the trade,_ his voice echoed in her head. The tingling had spread to her whole body. Her entire being felt as if it were pulsating, every heartbeat amplified.

"You have such strong, gorgeous hands," she said dazedly.

Alistair and Leliana shot her alarmed glances and even Morrigan paused.

"See?" Zevran quickly filled in the awkward silence. "Even the Warden appreciates—" but he never finished his sentence, as they all turned to her at the sound of the bowl tumbling down, her body slumping sideways, unconscious, to the ground.


	5. Chapter 5

_Am I finally dead?_ she wondered, her eyes shooting open.

It took her a moment to become accustomed to the darkness, but she realized she was ensconced in several layers of blankets, inside a tent. Outside she could hear voices. She turned her head in their direction, trying to listen in. She couldn't make out their words very clearly. She caught snippets of conversation— just simple banter, mostly between Oghren and Alistair. She turned her head away from the door flap. Although the tent was dark, she sensed a presence beside her. She startled, drawing in a deep breath.

"Don't—It's just me," Zevran whispered, his finger placed before his lips.

"What are you doing here?" she hissed.

"Making sure you are breathing," came the reply.

"I am breathing," she assured him, surprised and confused.

"You hit your head hard while fighting against Ser Ogre. I only trust healing magic so much," he explained. "Wynne thinks Morrigan was healing you a little too… enthusiastically, and that is why you fainted."

Jayne's mouth felt dry, her lips cracked.

"I do feel a little bit better," she said, "but I need a drink."

"I don't think we have anything stronger than Oghren's ale, my little lush—"

"Water!" she interjected.

Zevran laughed lightly, reaching for the canteen hanging on his belt.

"Here." He handed it to her.

She sat up on her elbow and took a sip of water. Her head still throbbed slightly, but the fogginess had lifted and the nausea had subsided. The water felt cool and satisfying as she gulped it down. Finally sated, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and passed the canteen back to him. He lifted it and took a long draught before caping it shut. She did not know why, but watching him drink from the same canteen stirred her, a flush of warmth climbing up her neck. It was such an intimate gesture.

 _Soldiers do it all the time. There is no room for being squeamish about such things,_ she reminded herself.

"I am glad you are feeling better," he said.

"Really, now. What are you doing here?" she asked.

_Be on your watch, Jayne. On your watch. What is he doing, sitting over you in the dark like this? Are you such a foolish goose that you forget he was hired to kill you once?_

"Wynne asked me to keep watch over you."

"No, she didn't."

"No, she didn't," he agreed. "But I took it upon myself to do so anyway. Did I ever tell you about Nurio?" he asked.

_Disconcertingly honest and cleverly evasive._

"Who is Nurio?" she asked, turning her body to face him.

"Nurio…Ah, poor Nurio…" he began. "I'll tell you all about Nurio, but it is going to cost you."

"I only deal in honest currency," she declared dryly.

"As do I, my delightful Warden, as do I. Honest currency is the best kind to swindle someone out of," he declared. "What I need is for you to give me one of your blankets. I am getting cold here— and stiff…not in the good way, either."

Jayne tossed one of the blankets in his face.

"So cruel, yet, so generous…" he stated wistfully, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. "Much better. Now, where were we?…"

"Nurio!" she demanded.

"Ah…Nurio was a ruthless Crow assassin. Short, barrel chested, and dark. Nurio played the part of idiot well; no one gave him much thought and that was exactly how he liked it…"

Jayne relaxed and became absorbed in Zevran's tale: Nurio and he running through secret underground tunnels, then disguised as boatswains as they later crossed the Main Canal in the Merchants' Quarters in Rialto, angry palace guards in mad pursuit, and finally he and Nurio leaping from a tower window, after retrieving a gem encrusted necklace, the damning evidence of an inappropriate affair that a high ranking courtier demanded returned. Her mind was ablaze with his colorful descriptions, imagining him performing his dastardly deeds and making his bold escapes in the dead of night, and brazenly, beneath a brilliant sun as golden as he.

"Nurio hit his head after a fall. He blacked out for a few moments, but we thought nothing of it; he was up on his feet afterwards, as agile as ever. Later on, when we were hiding out at The Crimson Feather, a Crow-controlled brothel on the lower south side of the city, Nurio skipped out on the celebrations. He said he was tired and wanted to rest a bit. I saw him sit in one of the corners of the room and shut his eyes. He fell asleep… and he never woke up again. We tried to awaken him, but he was dead," he paused. "I should never had let him go to sleep. If only I had kept him awake, perhaps he would still be alive."

"And that's why you are here?"

"You reminded me of Nurio."

"Short, barrel chested, and dark?" Jayne asked skeptically.

He laughed again.

"No..no…but you can play the part of idiot very endearingly."

He paused and she saw him slap himself lightly on the head.

"Here, Warden…Forgive me. I know you can't express your disapproval at the moment, so I hit myself on the head for you."

She shook her head.

"Was Nurio your best friend?" she asked.

"He was a fellow Crow, you understand. Friendship…is a relative term, I guess. We worked well together. We complemented each other's styles. I was more subtle, smoother…and he was blunt and forceful," he stopped, as if lost in his memories for a bit. "It was a good mix, on the job…and off the job…We enjoyed each other's company…in many ways."

Jayne's brows furrowed.

"In many ways?"

"Many ways," he replied meaningfully.

"Many ways…as in… lovers?" she finally managed to ask.

"Hardly!" Zevran scoffed.

She felt an odd relief.

"We just ravished each other— rough and dirty stuff," Zevran completed, amusedly.

Jayne's eyes widened. For all his flirtatiousness and innuendo around women, she had never expected him to prefer to lie with men.

 _This makes things infinitely easier,_ she thought.

_So why am I feeling so disappointed?_

"Does it bother you?" he finally asked.

"What?"

"That I enjoy taking my pleasure with men, as well?"

_As well?_

"What you choose to do with whomever you please is no business of mine," she replied.

"Maybe I'd like it to be," he said, leaning in closer to her.

Jayne furrowed her brow even further, ignoring his proximity.

"So when you say you 'take your pleasure with men, as well,' do you mean that you ALSO enjoy women?" she blurted out confusedly.

Zevran sat up again, with a deep sigh of resignation.

"Do I need to draw you pictures?"

"I am just trying to understand."

"I enjoy both," he stated. "The opportunities to enjoy pleasure are so rare and life so uncertain. I never take anything for granted. I seize the chance whenever it offers itself in a pleasant way. Sometimes it is in the guise of a delightful woman; others times it is personified in a strong man. Skill is skill— the end result is the same," he said, almost defiantly. "Is that a problem?"

"No," she replied pensively. "You love who you love."

"Who is talking about love?" Zevran wondered.

"You…Nurio…"

He laughed.

"That was not love— it was everything else, but  _not_  love!"

"Oh."

"Oh, what?" he persisted.

"You make it sound so…" she struggled to find the word she needed.

"What do you mean?"

"Empty. Haven't you ever felt more than a passing affection for any of your conquests?" she asked, almost timidly.

He remained in silence and she was afraid she had said something inappropriate.

"I…I don't…Look, I am an assassin-for-hire, bound for life to a brotherhood of murderers and thieves…I've been taught not to mix any personal feelings with work and I have seen how blurring those boundaries can lead to disaster. What would you have me do, my dear Warden? Settle down with a little wife in a cozy cottage on the Antivan coast and have her kiss me on the cheek as she sees me off in the morning? 'Have a good day, Zevran! Don't get too much blood on your clothes now!'" he said with slight exasperation. "As far as planning for the future goes, I was never given any choice, so I don't nurture any hopes. In fact, I never did— I was well aware that my life could be forfeit anytime I was assigned a contract."

Jayne stared at the ceiling of her tent.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Don't be. It is how it is."

"No, you don't understand," she said, the grief welling up inside her. "I know what you mean. I have no idea what the future will bring me either. My life had been planned out for me since I was born— I could never have imagined otherwise, until everything was pulled out from beneath me. Now I am one of only two remaining Grey Wardens in Ferelden and the plight of the entire country is in our hands to resolve…a country that hunts us even as we try to save it. I can't think of a future, either. Nothing seems certain, except death."

She could hear him breathing.

"Then make peace with it," he said. "It comes to us all, sooner or later. Live well, always," he insisted. "Don't deny yourself. Take your pleasure whenever the opportunity presents itself."

"But you may end up hurting others if you go through life that way…Just taking and taking…" her voice trailed off.

"You hurt no one if you are honest," he explained. "If two people consent to giving each other pleasure without any further expectations, how can it be a bad thing?"

"What if someone starts wanting something more?"

"Something more like what? Exclusivity? Constancy?"

"Why are we having this conversation?"

She was clearly irritated.

"I don't know! One moment I was telling you a great story about Nurio, which I was reminded of and only told you because you were both clumsy enough to bump your heads, and the next thing I know, you have Nurio and me professing undying love for each other. Sometimes you just need to surrender to your desires and curiosity for no other reason than to have a good time."

She could see him faintly in the dark, his face only slightly visible in the weak glint of firelight against the heavy tent walls. He leaned over again and whispered in her ear.

"It's when you let others in that things become more enjoyable."

His breath was warm against her cheek.

"But I should let you rest," he said offhandedly, pulling away from her.

 _As if I could now!_ she thought, vexed.

They heard footsteps approach the tent. Wynne and Alistair spoke in hushed voices.

"Brasca…Brasca…" he muttered. "They will not be happy to find me here," he said.

Jayne raised the blankets.

"Hide."

He slipped in beside her, along the length of her body, lying sideways, making himself as inconspicuous as possible as she arranged the pile of covers over them.

The tent flap opened and she pretended to be deeply asleep. The two observed her in silence for a few moments. She felt Zevran's fingers unexpectedly skim over the skin beneath her arm and tickle her. She stirred slightly and pretended to let out a sleepy groan. The tent flap dropped again.

"At least she is getting some rest," Wynne stated reassuringly.

"Will she be alright?" Alistair asked.

Jayne felt a pang of guilt.

"I am sure of it," she affirmed.

They heard the footsteps move farther away. Jayne lifted the blankets. Other than teasing her with his tickling, he did not touch her, and began to slide off her bedroll. He caught her puzzled expression and stopped.

"I can stay, if you wish," he said.

She held her breath. He waited for a response, his arms extended as he held still.

"Don't go," she said, in a whisper of a voice.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked seductively.

 _Everything. Everything has gone to pot,_ she told herself.  _And all I have done is battle, battle, and fight. It has been so difficult, so miserable, so terrifying._

She raised her hand to his face and caressed the dark swirls inked on his skin. He closed his eyes and leaned his cheek into her hand.

 _This is a bright light in the darkness,_ she encouraged herself. She remembered what he had said.  _If they were honest with each other, then it would be fine, right?_

He nuzzled the palm of her hand with his nose, his lips grazing her fingertips. He paused for a moment, reaching for the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. He was slender and leanly muscular. She ran her hands over his warm, bare chest, feeling an inebriating rush.

"Warden," he whispered.

"Jayne," she corrected him, slightly breathless.

"Warden," he continued. "I have a question for you."

"What is it?" she asked.

"You and Alistair are close, are you not?"

 _Here it is,_ she thought, warning bells tolling.  _The elusive ulterior motive, at last. Of course it was all a ruse. And I was going to fall for it, the whole entire act that he didn't even have the stomach to perform to its conclusion._

She shoved him off her and sat up, adjusting her tunic.

"What about me and Alistair?" she asked, her tone harsh.

He was taken aback by her reaction.

"I am curious as to the nature of your relationship."

 _Divide in detail,_ she remembered someone say about war tactics, long ago _._

"Why do you want to know?"

He crossed his arms over his chest.

"I've watched you and he together. I know a complication when it rears its head and threatens to bite. If this thing between you and Alistair is leading somewhere, I'll happily step aside. Complication avoided. Everyone's the happier, yes?"

_What thing?_

"Are you jealous, perchance?" she squinted.

He let out a derisive laugh.

"I make no claims upon you, nor would I  _dream_  of such. You are free to pursue your fancies as you desire, and I would it have it no other way. I suspect Alistair, however, would not feel the same way. If there is to be something between you and I, to string him along would only hurt him deeply. Surely you know this is true. I am many things: a murderer, a thief, a lover— but I am no cheat. If whatever is between us cannot be honest, let it not be at all," he stated seriously.

"What are you talking about? Not a cheat? I've played Wicked Grace with you!"

"Not that kind of cheating— that's a tax on your own foolishness if you allow it to happen. I am talking about the other kind of cheating. Allow me to explain: Jealousy is an unpredictable force and I do not need any unnecessary distractions, such as worrying about Alistair turning on me at a decisive moment. So tell me, Warden, what is Alistair to you?"

"I love Alistair," she replied calmly.

Zevran stared at her stoically.

"Very well. I understand."

He seized his belongings and tugged his shirt back over his head hurriedly.

"Alistair is my best friend. He is my  _brother_. If my greatest wish comes true, he will someday be  _king_. I am fighting by his side, but I am also fighting for him!" she said emotionally.

Zevran threw his hands up in frustration.

"You love him! He is your best friend! Which is it?"

"Both!" she argued.

"How can it be both?"

"Don't you know anything about friendship? You can love someone and not want to…to…bed them!" she complained. "Alistair and I have been through so much together and through it all, we have counted on each other. Regardless of the outcome, we will be fighting side by side, to the bitter end."

"Is that Grey Warden speak for something more…lurid?" he asked cynically.

"Leave," she growled.

He promptly moved towards the front of the tent. As he reached for the flap, she took a deep breath.

"Zevran, you say you are a lover, but you actually know very little about love. You have only had a semblance of closeness, of warmth with all these people you have slept with. Love and lust are two entirely different things. Sometimes they go hand in hand, but sometimes they are as distinct as night and day. When you love, you are not content with just taking. When you love, you give. You give of yourself, and you do so unselfishly, because you hold the well-being and happiness of the ones you love as precious as, if not more than, your own."

He listened without facing her, his hand still, resting on the tent canvas. He shook his head.

"Warden, this is a luxury I have not experienced," he said. She picked up the hollowness in his voice. "I understand the grand gestures in a romance, but they have always appeared self serving," he mused. "Friendships have always seemed more like a maneuvering of convenient alliances to me. This whole idea is, frankly, a bit terrifying."

"What idea?"

"That you can love a friend that fiercely and loyally and expect nothing in return."

"Of all the terrifying things we have come up against so far, that should be the least horrible one," Jayne stated, huddling beneath the covers again.

Zevran turned around and contemplated her curled up figure beneath the covers.

"Perhaps for you, as you have enjoyed privileges I could never afford to indulge in my life…and profession."

"You are now otherwise employed," she retorted.

His demeanor softened.

"Ah, that I am…"

He reached over her and rearranged one of her blankets. He drew his face up to hers and searched her eyes, his lips tantalizingly close.

"I'm glad we spoke tonight. You have given me much to think about," he said gently.

She did not answer him.

 _"_ Good night, Warden. Get some rest and heal well."

He slipped out of the tent.

_There was no attempt on my life. No efforts to drive any wedges between Alistair and me. Quite the opposite. He only sought clarification._

She stared at the ceiling, clenching her fists and beating them into the bedroll.

_Love and lust._

_Right now I can't tell them apart._


	6. Chapter 6

The lump over Jayne's eye was still swollen and angrily red. Despite Wynne and Morrigan's successful efforts to ease the pain, the bruise was large and ugly. She grumbled as she tilted the tin plate to better reflect her image.

_It's as if a horn were about to burst forth. I'll be taking the Ogre's place._

"It'll look worse before it gets better," Leliana noted, dipping a hunk of stale brown bread into her fried egg's yolk.

"That seems to be a fitting motto for life these days," Jayne sighed.

Oghren came up to them, offering them a skillet filled with sizzling fried eggs, droplets of brown fat sputtering and glistening on the metal. They shook their heads and he continued his rounds among the others.

"You seem unusually gloomy today," Leliana finally ventured.

"Can I tell you something private?" Jayne asked in a low voice. Leliana leaned in discretely, wiping her mouth. "Zevran was in my tent last night."

"You and Zevran?"

"Yes," she nodded, but then stopped herself. "I mean, no."

Leliana tilted her head.

"I am afraid I don't follow."

"Let's just say that at one point he was in my bedroll."

"And?"

"And then I got mad at him. I thought he intended to do something, but I misunderstood."

Leliana dabbed at the yellow goo, dragging the bread across the plate.

"A misunderstanding?"

"Yes. A misunderstanding that made him beat a hasty retreat. I am very upset with myself," she admitted. "I may have ruined everything."

"But what is this 'everything'? What do you want from him?" Leliana munched thoughtfully.

"I want to trust him," she said.

"Trust him with what?" Leliana pressed on.

_My heart._

"The Maker never places anyone in our path who cannot teach us in our journey." Leliana added, waving to Bodhan across the camp. "Maybe you should take a chance and see? Either way, you will gain something worthwhile. And so will he, I believe."

"Why can't I just go ahead and do that? I want to…I'm not a prude."

"I see."

"I mean, I'm not  _that_ experienced, but I'm not a big innocent either," she concluded.

They both let their eyes wander to Alistair, who smiled back at them winsomely, a streak of yolk on his cheek.

"What do you think is holding you back?"

"I think…The whole idea of just being a roll in the hay," she said quietly. "It bothers me to think I'll be another notch on his conquest count."

"What would you rather be to him?"

"I don't know," she bent her head down and clasped her hands over her neck. "I think I might…I don't know!… Care about him?"

"I see!…You want his body AND his heart," Leliana turned to her, a glint in her eye.

Jayne raised her head again, dismay on her face.

"Ah," she groaned. "When you put it that way…"

"That looks terrible," Morrigan interrupted, pointing at her forehead as she walked by.

"And a good morning to you!" Jayne called out, annoyed.

She huffed and rubbed her face.

"Leliana, I am a mess. I don't have the stamina to agonize over this when we are facing a damned Blight."

"Do you want to know what I think?" Leliana scraped her plate clean with the last chunk of bread. Jayne waited. "I think that you have to accept you have no control over these feelings…but you do have control over your actions. If it makes you happy to be with him, then take it for what it is. Love him: body and soul. Nothing is certain, there are no guarantees. You are not a stranger to risk. And right now we are all taking an immense risk…A risk you are forging through and leading us past with so much courage. Why falter in this? It is not like you, Jayne. Wouldn't it be worse if you regretted never showing him how you feel? For what purpose?" she asked.

Jayne pondered her words. Leliana cheerfully pat her on the back and walked towards the bucket near the cart, to wash her plate, passing by Zevran as he made his way to Jayne.

"Good morning!" she smiled exaggeratedly.

Once he reached Jayne, he stood over her, arms crossed, shaking his head.

"What is wrong with Leliana?"

She pursed her lips tightly.

"Because she looks like the cat who ate the canary right now."

He squatted down and inspected the bump on her forehead.

"Aia," he winced. "That's got to hurt, no?"

"Finish up! We need to take down the tents. We move north for several miles and then enter the forest at the east," Alistair announced to everyone.

"Zevran, there is something I need to tell you."

_Before I lose my nerve, before I dissuade myself._

He shifted his gaze back to her.

"Alistair and I are friends. I won't say 'only' friends, because I meant everything I said about him last night. But I am not stringing anyone along. I'm not fickle or capricious. I'm no cheater, either."

He brushed his hand over her head tenderly.

"I know you aren't," he said. "There is a saying in Antiva: 'When the fisherman returns home with a big catch, his wife is suspicious.'"

She squinted, the significance of the saying eluding her.

"What does it mean?"

"Just this: it seemed too good to be truly happening," he murmured.

Jayne looked at him in amazement.

_Surely more enticing and enthralling conquests had passed through his arms?_

"Did you at least get some rest last night?"

She shook her head.

"Me neither," he said. "I stayed up thinking and thinking…"

"I hope it didn't hurt too much," she teased.

"Not the things I was thinking about…quite the opposite," he said mischievously.

"Then…perhaps you could share your thoughts with me."

She sought his eyes. He arched his eyebrows.

"I would love to exchange some of my thoughts with you later on…" he suggested.

"It'll be an exciting debate."

"Mmm. I can't wait to be enlightened."

His lips parted in a wide grin. He glimpsed around them to check for onlookers, and leaned in, pecking her lightly on the ear before stepping away.

"Nothing to see here!" he announced to Sten, who was walking by with several tent poles.

He grunted, indifferently.


	7. Chapter 7

"These aren't like any woods I've ever seen," Jayne said as they passed a pair of broken columns standing guard over a mound of rubble. Weeds, saplings, and moss poked between the cracks of the once imposing ruins.

"Tevinter," Morrigan pointed. They had entrusted her with guiding them through the forest, as she, raised in the Korcari, was the only one who had experience trekking through such wilderness.

"I don't like it," Oghren muttered, looking back towards the trail they had been following.

They had left Bodhan, Sandal, Wynne, Rune, and Sten behind at the forest's edge, while they scouted the area for any signs of the Dalish. So far they had taken a circuitous route that revealed little more than eerie mist-covered woods, overgrown paths, and now the ruins.

Morrigan crouched down and brushed her hand over the ground before her.

"These tracks are fresh," she declared, turning back to them.

"Animal?" Alistair wondered.

"Dinner?" Oghren hoped.

"I'm not sure." Morrigan examined the slight indentations closer. Jayne peered over her and thought that she would never have realized those were tracks; to her untrained eyes, they looked like part of the rough, unkempt path. "They look almost like animal tracks, except that something isn't quite right— animals can't place weight on the balls of the feet they don't have," she puzzled.

Jayne exchanged uneasy glances with Alistair.

_What now, Maker?_

"It is getting dark," Leliana remarked. "We should head back."

"Perhaps we should set camp near that pond we passed on our way down here. Bodhan can guide the cart that far," Alistair suggested.

"Not too close, though," Morrigan cautioned. "It's probably a drinking hole for the animals in the area. Whatever animals these may be…"

Zevran slapped his neck for the hundredth time, an expression of discomfort and disgust on his face.

"I am all for getting out of here. I'm getting eaten alive—"

"—and not in the 'good' way," Alistair completed.

"Alistair! I'm so proud! I'm rubbing off on you!" he cheered.

"Ugh! Not a chance," he rolled his eyes. "I was just anticipating what you would say."

Oghren chuckled jovially at the exchange, but fell silent once he realized all were quiet around him.

"Listen," Morrigan murmured.

They held still. No birds chirping, no rustling over the carpet of dry leaves around them, no activity whatsoever.

"Let's go," she added, turning back towards the trail.

They returned to the others swiftly and managed to guide the cart to a narrow clearing, past which it would no longer manage to go. Beyond that spot, the forest became thicker and more foreboding.

"Any signs of the Dalish?" Wynne inquired.

Alistair frowned.

"No."

They had more or less another hour of daylight. She had been on the road long enough to have learned how to measure the day by the sun, the sky, and the ebbing and flowing of her own Tainted blood. The Taint became more pronounced as the day faded. Once, a lifetime ago, she had measured the day's length by the daily routines at Highever: the milkmaids, the shepherds, the farmers… No longer.

"I'll be back shortly," she announced, pulling a cloth out of her pack.

She removed her breastplate and most of her armor and left them on the ground. She twirled her straight brown hair into a secure bun. Along with a change of clothes she brought her one luxury: a small stone container holding a doughy wad of soap, almost all gone. It resembled something Rune would retch up, but it smelled heavenly.

She told herself rationally that she just needed to rinse out the grime— miles of sweat and dust clinging to her arms and legs, leaving a sooty line of dirt between her skin and her armor.

 _Who am I fooling? I'm washing up for Zevran, should he make good on his braggadocio,_ came the irritating thought.

She stole a glance at the elf, in conversation with Bodhan, gesticulating dramatically. She swopped down and grabbed her sword, turning towards the dusky woods.

The pond was downhill from their camp. She came upon it as the last rays of sunlight struck the water, the slight breeze rippling its surface and adorning it with pinpoints of yellow and orange leaves from the shedding trees hanging over the margins.

_Let's make this quick._

She laid down the sword by her feet, pulled her undershirt off, and stepped out of her breeches and undergarments. She crouched sideways into the water, keeping an eye on the pond, and the other on the shore, her sword at arm's reach. Her toes sank into the silty bottom, cool and mushy against her skin. The water was frigid, but invigorating, she thought, as she poured handfuls over her shoulders, down her back. She caught her reflection wavering on the surface before her. The bruise was there still, of course, but she made note of the white jagged scar running down from her chest.  _It's like one of those hideous centipedes,_ she thought, rubbing her hand over the toughened skin. That had been a souvenir from the battle at Ostagar. How Flemeth had managed to suture her entrails back in properly, she'd never know. Across her back were smaller scars— stab wounds from that first horrific attack at Highever. She'd been unarmed and turned to grab her weapon when Howe's soldier tried to hack at her.

 _Last thing the coward ever did,_ she thought angrily.

She took a dab of soap from the container, mixed it with some water, and lathered it over her body. The odor of jasmine permeated her fingers and skin as she rinsed off. Shifting her weight slightly, she rinsed her face and prepared to rise and dry off. As she removed her hands from her face, she felt the sharp edge of a sword against her neck.

"Do not move," the voice commanded.

 _I am an idiot,_ Jayne thought, shivering, beads of water dripping off her nose.

She saw a young man emerge from behind the cluster of trees at the end of the shore. He was shorter than she, sinewy and strong. He held a bow with an arrow pointed straight at her and his face, inked with dark markings, was calm and expressionless. Pale and fair haired, his eyes gleamed with a familiar transparency. An elf. The blade tapped her beneath the chin and she rose slowly, wondering what were the chances she could drag her sword over with her feet before she was either stabbed or pierced.

 _Not good,_ she decided.

"I am unarmed," she stated calmly.

"You are on our land."

"I am not interested in stirring up any trouble. My companions and I are seeking the Dalish."

She raised her eyes warily to the elf pointing the arrow at her. His gaze was affixed to her face.

A steady hand pushed her forward slightly.

"Turn around."

A light-haired woman stood before her, the sword's tip pointing at her chest.

"What do you want with the Dalish?" she asked.

"I wish to speak to your Keeper," she stated.

"Whatever about?" the woman asked suspiciously.

"I come to ask your Keeper to honor a treaty."

"What treaty? We cannot be expected to honor any treaties when you Shems cannot be bothered to uphold your—"

"I am a Grey Warden," Jayne said.

_A naked and cold Grey Warden._

The woman signaled to her companion.

"Is this truth?"

"I have come with another Grey Warden. He and I have traveled here because we need aid from your people."

"We can barely aid ourselves," the woman said.

"A Blight threatens us all," Jayne continued.

The woman's eyes narrowed.

"Yes…all signs point to it. We have encountered a few stray bands of Darkspawn lurking in the forest…"

She stopped and spoke to her companion in her tongue, the words smooth and silvery. Jayne's teeth were chattering.

"Here— dry yourself off and lead us to your camp."

The man handed her the cloth and she gratefully wrapped it around herself, only to realize that it was still too short and small. She moved to reach for her clothes, but the woman stopped her.

"Halt! We will take those for you," she said curtly. "You can have them once we verify you are who you claim to be. Come!"

Jayne walked through the forest barefoot, her cloth wrapped strategically around her hips, her folded arms embracing her chest. The man walked in front of her, slightly beyond reach, carrying her sword and other belongings. Behind her, the woman kept her blade pointed at her back. The man shouted a few words towards the trees behind them, and almost immediately, three others emerged, bows and hunting sacks slung across their backs.

Daylight had faded almost completely. The last rays of light cast long, twisted shadows around them. Ahead, at a short distance, she could see the campfire.

_If this doesn't become an incident, it will be a miracle._

As she feared would happen, Rune started to bark and growl. When they emerged from the woods into the clearing, all arrows were pointing at their camp and she was thrust forward, a sword vertically poised against her neck. Rune crouched down on his front legs as if to spring forward. Alistair unsheathed his sword and Morrigan reached for her staff.

"Stand down!" Jayne ordered loudly. "Rune!" she commanded forcefully.

The Mabari sat, whining and licking his muzzle restlessly. All froze where they were. She noticed Zevran standing slightly apart from the others, his hands poised over his daggers, eyes downcast and calculating. "There will be no bloodshed here, whatsoever!" she declared, to her companions as well as the Dalish. "We have…entered Dalish land. They wish to verify our claims." She trembled, her skin feeling clammy to her own touch. "Alistair, show them the treaty."

Alistair placed his sword down, and with palms upturned, facing the Dalish patrol, backed away slowly towards his pack. He reached in for the scrolls they had secured in a scribe's traveling roll. He walked to the edge of the campfire and one of the soldiers rushed forward and seized the roll from his hands. He removed the scrolls and unfurled them carefully, bringing them to the woman. After several minutes, the blade fell away from her neck.

She faced Jayne again and nodded respectfully.

"I am Mithra," she said. "I wish we could have extended you a proper Dalish welcome, Grey Wardens, but we must exercise caution at this time."

By this point, the forest was dark. Stars peeked out in the sky above.

One of her men said something, concern in his voice, while pointing at an agitated Rune.

"It is only a Mabari," she said, staring at him. "The forest is not safe after dark. May we make camp with you tonight? We will take you to our Keeper in the morning," the woman announced.

They all exchanged mistrustful glances. The elf who had been carrying her belongings returned her bundle. She gratefully seized her clothes and sword, clutching the armful against her bare skin.

"Let us make amends," Mithra said, gesturing to her soldiers. "We were on patrol when we came across you…but we had also managed to hunt some game earlier. We can share our bounty with you."

The soldiers plunked down four large feathered birds on the ground before them. Oghren rubbed his hands excitedly. Hardened glares gave way to expressions of delight.

"I like you people already," he stated earnestly.

The camp had suddenly acquired a slightly festive mood as preparations for dinner were underway. Jayne retreated to her tent and quickly put on her dry clothes. She heard a few slaps on the tent walls.

"Warden!" came the melodious voice.

"I'll be right out," she announced hurriedly. She realized with a pang of regret that the little stone soap container was gone.

"Are you decent?" Zevran asked.

"Yes, I'm dressed."

"You can still be dressed and be indecent," he explained, his head poking through the entrance. "One can always hope."

He bent down and entered the tent, sitting down in a corner.

"Are you unharmed?" he asked.

"I'm freezing, but fine, otherwise."

"So you need to tell me," he said, expectantly.

"What?"

"How did you manage to end up captured by a Dalish patrol… completely naked? I am impressed! I thought that kind of thing only happened to me!"

Jayne rubbed her forehead.

"I went down to the pond to wash off—" she stopped once she saw Zevran's confused expression.

"Wait, wait…I am having trouble understanding all these words! Could you act it out for me, instead?" he asked coyly. "I'll play the part of the big, bad, Dalish patrol, yes?" he smiled, pulling out the cloth she had been wearing earlier from behind his back. Jayne tried to contain a laugh as she grabbed it from his hand and flung it over her head. "No?" he asked, pretending to be hurt. "Fine. I'll be the helpless Grey Warden: 'Oh, please, don't tie me up!'" he cried, offering her his wrists.

Jayne finally laughed openly. He stopped smiling suddenly, though, reaching for her cheek and examining her face.

"Your lips are blue."

He surveyed the tent quickly and dragged a blanket out of her pack.

"To the campfire— now," he said, taking her hand.

Outside, the fire roared, sparking brightly against the night sky. The warmth was welcome. At first, all were quiet, but as the evening progressed, and stomaches were filled, and Oghren, in a fit of generosity, passed around a large tankard filled with ale, conversation flowed more congenially. Leliana brought out her lute and even Sten appeared somewhat content as he slipped Rune his leftover bones. Leliana leaned over to them.

"Zevran— these are your people! Aren't you excited at all?" she whispered.

He sucked on a tooth and turned to the Dalish group sitting across from them.

"Are any of you Antivan Crows?" he inquired.

They looked at each other confusedly.

"Not my people," he shrugged.


	8. Chapter 8

"Allow me to escort you back to your tent, Warden," Zevran offered.

"Her tent is two steps away!" Alistair protested, as he tossed more wood into the fire.

"We are in unfamiliar territory. The terrain," he indicated, pointing at a groggy Oghren sprawled on the ground before them, "hostile…and rather terrifying. Warden," he stated with exaggerated respect, stepping aside and allowing her to pass.

A slight nervousness overcame her as they approached her tent.

"I will inspect the inside for any hidden threats," he announced in an overly solicitous tone.

A mere seconds later he peeked out.

"No unconscious drunken dwarves inside, milady. It is safe to enter."

Inside her tent she noticed he had spread out her blankets across the ground. He extended his hand to her, guiding her to a spot next to him. She grinned weakly. They sat beside each other in silence, but she had the impression he was enjoying her discomfort.

"Warden, why so tense?"

_I feel dizzy._

"I can offer you a massage," he said playfully. "I know you like my hands…"

_Thank the Maker for the cover of night._

She knew, from the sting in her cheeks, that she was blushing. He moved behind her and knelt, gathering her hair off her back and draping it over her shoulder. He placed his hands over her shoulders and unexpectedly dug his thumbs between her shoulder blades. She arched her back from the sudden jolt of pain.

"So tight," he chided her, not stopping.

He continued his rhythmic kneading, his touch vigorous and precise. Her muscles gradually loosened and a pleasant languor settled into her limbs.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"You are good," she admitted.

He stopped.

"I am better than good," he complained, as if gravely offended. "These are skills passed down from generation to generation of the most talented Antivan courtesans. Small fortunes are gladly surrendered in exchange for such exquisite pleasure—"

"Less talking, more massaging." She wiggled her shoulders expectantly at him.

"I have been challenged," he asserted solemnly. "Now I must give you… the full treatment."

"What's that?" she marveled, attempting to turn around.

Instead of a reply, his lips brushed the nape of her neck, his breath warm, tracing a path to her ear. He encircled her waist with his sturdy arms.

"May I?" he whispered in her ear.

Slightly dazed, she nodded.

He tugged at her tunic, his hands gathering up the cloth, grazing ever-so-slightly over her breasts, before pulling it off.

"You do understand that this is no longer a massage," he murmured archly.

"Am I that daft?" she complained, turning to face him.

_Enough of this sidestepping._

She threw her arms around his neck, embracing him so suddenly and forcefully he lost his balance and they toppled down into the blankets. He chuckled lightly, clasping her over his chest.

 _He is so beautiful_ , she thought.

She leaned over and kissed his lips tentatively. She reached her hands beneath his shirt, peeling it off him, his chest smooth and taut beneath her fingertips. His full lips curled in a wicked grin and his eyes appraised her lustily. He grasped her, pulling her back down over him, her skin naked against his. He sought her mouth, kissing her seductively, slowly, expertly teasing her with a flick of his tongue over her parted lips. She gasped, his touch sending ripples of arousal through her body.

_Ancient, unintelligible words hissed menacingly from within. The malevolent presence quickened inside her, flooding her ears, darkening her thoughts._

She always struggled to explain to the others what it was like, but Alistair had described it best: a rotting stench they felt rather than smelled.

She broke off their embrace abruptly. Zevran sat up immediately, searching her face in the dark.

"Warden?"

She reached for her tunic in the darkness, pulling it back over her head and felt the ground for her sword. He unquestioningly followed her lead, swiftly dressing himself. As they emerged from the tent, she saw Alistair run towards them.

"How many?" she asked.

"A band— scouts most likely. Heading up this way," he gestured towards the dark woods ahead.

"I'll warn the others," Zevran announced, rushing away.

They made their way to the edge of the camp, facing the forest, listening into the night. Faint sounds resounded in the distance. Mithra appeared beside them.

"My soldiers are ready, Wardens."

Jayne turned to see the elves standing next to each other, bowstrings nocked to their arrows, prepared to shoot. In the background, a flurry of activity unfurled as the others hurried to gather their armor and weapons.

"Stand back slightly and leave enough space between each other," she ordered the archers. "Shoot the attackers the moment they break past the trees and keep retreating. We will charge between your line and cut down the survivors," she explained.

Alistair's eyes had grown completely black.

 _As have mine_ , she realized.

The Darkspawn inched closer. They positioned themselves behind the archers, ready to burst forward, listening for signs of the incoming attack.

"Jayne, I sense something-" Wynne cautioned behind her.

_Magic?_

Just as she and Alistair could perceive Darkspawn approach, Wynne and Morrigan sensed magic anytime it emanated nearby.

"An Emissary?" she asked, thinking of the fallen mages the Taint corrupted.

"No!" Morrigan shook her head, eyes focused ahead. "It's not an Emissary… or mage, or sorcerer of any kind."

"It is different. I thought so! A trace of…something else… a spell of sorts," she turned to Morrigan, intrigued.

"A malediction," Morrigan stated, uneasily.

Not too far away, a loud commotion broke loose. They recognized the guttural shrieks of the Darkspawn, but along with those were other, unfamiliar noises- deep, rumbling growls that grew in viciousness. A brutal battle raged in the depths of the forest, piercing screeches echoing back to their camp. Rune's hackles were raised and he remained close to her. They stood expectantly, tensely, vigilant for any signs of movement, for attackers to emerge from the woods and dash towards them. The uproar eventually moved farther away from their camp, growing fainter with each passing moment until an uneasy quietness settled over the wilderness. The brief stillness was broken by a long, piercing howl, further into the forest.

The swirling, sickening blackness that possessed her lifted gradually. She noticed Alistair did not sense it anymore either, his eyes clear and bright once more.

"What happened?" He was baffled. "This is unusual."

"It's the forest…It isn't safe. Especially at night," Mithra explained.

"What was that out there?" Jayne asked.

"There are dangerous creatures wandering and hunting in these woods." Mithra signaled to her soldiers and they retreated into the camp.

"I have witnessed much that could be deemed as absurd or impossible, but I have never heard of any ordinary wildlife successfully defeating a band of Darkspawn. I believe you owe us a better explanation than that," Jayne persisted, following her.

"I am not at liberty to discuss this matter with you. Our Keeper can tell you…tomorrow. In the meantime, if I could have a word with you, Wardens. In private," she requested.

Mithra and Alistair filed into his tent. As Jayne was about to enter it, she noticed Zevran. She cast him a despondent glance.

_Another missed chance._

He shrugged, a rueful grin on his lips, before wandering back alone to his tent.


	9. Chapter 9

"Would it be too much to ask that for once, when we show up to remind people on making good on their promises, that they simply say, 'Yes, of course' so we could be on our way?" Alistair complained to Jayne.

They huddled together as they waited for the Dalish Keeper to welcome them. Mithra had been inside the aravel for the better part of half an hour as they lingered outside, observing the Dalish camp's activity. The others hadn't been allowed farther inside and sat or paced around in varying degrees of impatience just inside the camp's entrance.

"How many do you think they have to send to battle?" Jayne wondered.

"It's hard to say," Alistair muttered, trying to survey the camp behind them. Numerous aravels aligned a path towards a downward slope. "The Dalish tend to break up their camps to ensure their survival. This is one of the largest known settlements," he explained. "And who knows how many more settlements and clans they are able to summon?"

"I feel like we are wasting time," she whispered impatiently, leaning into him.

"It is amazing that anything functions at all in Ferelden," he agreed. "It sounds like the Blight has been a godsend; otherwise, I do not see how those problems would have been solved."

"And haven't we had to solve it all…" she sighed.

Circle of Magi facing a Rite of Annulment because of rampant possessions... Dwarves with no definitive ruler... A comatose Arl under the thrall of magic gone awry…The only remedy? A pinch of Andraste's ashes! In each situation she had tried her best to act justly and respectfully. In Arl Eamon's case, they had even saved his family from being sacrificed to the demonic forces that threatened to engulf them. Remembering the haughty Arlessa, Isolde, who barely acknowledged them, even after they saved her son, made Jayne cross her arms stiffly.

"What could possibly be taking so long?"

"Perhaps they all fled through the back door of the aravel," Alistair chuckled.

A door above them swung open and Mithra climbed down the steps.

"Keeper Zathrian will speak to you now."

Alistair smiled politely and pulled himself into the aravel. Jayne followed closely behind, just in time to see him hit his forehead on a wooden beam.

"Careful," a deep voice resonated deeper inside. "The ceilings are low in here."

The inside of the aravel was of beautifully carved wood. The ceiling was painted delicately in sylvan motifs, echoing the swirls and etchings in the woodwork. At the entrance a small wood-burning stove provided heat beneath a built-in cupboard. Further inside, the sides of the aravel's interior contained two narrow window benches facing each other. At the very end, facing the door, was what appeared to be a small alcove where pillows and blankets had been neatly arranged. Standing before it, a tall bald-headed man, his face covered in elaborately scrolled etchings, welcomed them.

"I am Keeper Zathrian," he explained. He indicated a younger woman standing beside him. "This is my First, Lenaya."

The Keeper invited them to sit and talk, apologizing for the way they had been welcomed.

"I am aware of the treaty and would have you know that the Dalish have always held the Grey Wardens in the highest regard: unlike other peoples we have had to deal with, you have always acted fairly and honestly. We would like to honor the treaty."

Alistair's eyes widened in surprise. Even Jayne barely suppressed a cheer.

"However…" the Keeper continued warily.

Alistair sat heavily on the window seat, thinly veiled irritation on his face. Jayne wasn't faring much better.

_Maker, you do try us._


	10. Chapter 10

"We'll be making camp here," Alistair announced.

Everyone began to groan or protest. She did not envy Alistair. They had determined who would deliver the news on the way out of the Keeper's aravel. One of the elves who had escorted them back to the Dalish camp earlier stood guard at the entrance. Jayne approached him.

"Could you please direct us to where we should pitch our camp?"

"Shemlens are not allowed in our camp," he retorted curtly, before facing ahead once more.

Jayne tilted her head at him.

"But your Keeper just—"

"This way, Wardens," Mithra interrupted, walking up behind them.

She shot the man a withering glance before leading them up the small path past the aravels.

"We are not used to having visitors…Much less visitors who are not Dalish," she stated.

Zevran appeared indifferent, Jayne noticed, out of the corner of her eye.

"But the Keeper has requested that you stay among us," she added.

Glum faces surveyed the small plot they had been confined to.

"I don't particularly care to be in such close proximity to everyone," Morrigan remarked.

"The feeling is mutual," Alistair replied.

"I don't see the sense in remaining here," Sten noted.

"I did not like having to leave my cart behind," Bodhan added.

A large portion of the day had been devoted to leading the blessed cart as close to the Dalish camp as possible and then emptying it of everything valuable or of use, making everyone's packs and loads heavier and cumbersome. Bodhan never complained, but she could see his patience straining, as he held his mare's reigns.

"Your cart and my barrel of ale," Oghren agreed, peeved.

"It's a gloomy place," Wynne said. "It is as if the air itself were poisoned."

"I, for one, look forward to listening to their songs," Leliana offered, brightly.

"Right. Well…set camp for the night," Alistair ordered.

His tone was tired and terse. Jayne led the way, dropping her belongings on the ground and unfurling the tightly rolled canvas. The others watched her as she slowly went about the dull task. She felt indifferent to their stares; she was as frustrated as they were. Werewolves, the Keeper had told Alistair and her, had been attacking and infecting the Dalish. Half human, half beast, they had been the ones to ambush the band of Darkspawn so brutally. She was not ready to tell her group that they would be making incursions into the forest to find and kill the werewolves' leader and end the mysterious plague. There was something else, too— something that bothered her about the Keeper: it was how he insisted on the fact there was no cure for the illness other than slaughtering the werewolves… Yet, he provided no evidence to support his claim.

"But surely, if they are part human, there must be some way to reason, to appeal to their humanity," she had reasoned.

"No!" the Keeper interjected. "They are corrupted beyond redemption. You must believe me!"

 _You have a real problem with authority, Pup,_ her father had always told her, sometimes cautiously, other times amusedly. _Make sure it serves you well._

"Alistair." She walked up to him, as he stretched out the canvas for his own tent. "I think we need to confer with Wynne and Morrigan later on."

"Whatever about?" he wondered.

"We need them to apply their knowledge to a matter that is bothering me."

Alistair nodded distractedly as one of the tent stakes sprung out of the ground. Rune began to bark loudly and she noticed two elves approach their group.

"Our First has invited you to share the evening meal with us," one of them announced, avoiding making eye contact with any of them.

"Yes. Of course," Jayne told them. "We would be honored to."

Despite her polite reply, the elves did not acknowledge her response. One of the elves, a robust man with a bow slung over his back, asked Zevran a question in their language.

"Are you speaking to me?" Zevran asked.

The man repeated his words.

"I do not speak your language," he stated coolly.

" _Our_ language. You are an elf, are you not?"

"How observant," he responded insolently.

"It is shameful how there are those of us who would turn their backs on their own people, on their own culture."

"Forgive me, you are absolutely right. I have not been exactly forthcoming with you. I _do_ know some Dalish— this is something I was often called by _our_ kind, as a boy, in Antiva City," he paused, clearing his throat. "Len'alas lath'din," he said clearly and pointedly.

The elves' expressions became somber and one convinced the other to walk away, under Zevran's defiant stare. They had walked a sufficient distance before Zevran turned his back to all of them and hurled his pack violently into the tent, disappearing behind the flaps.

"What was that all about?" Alistair wondered.

Jayne fought the urge to go to him and ask what was wrong. He prized his levelheadedness in conflict, his calculating calm in desperate situations. She suspected he would not be in the best of moods after that display.


	11. Chapter 11

"We need your expertise," Jayne said to both Morrigan and Wynne, under Alistair's watchful gaze.

They had been invited to sit among the Dalish, but other than the Dalish First, Lenaya, and an elf named Sarel, who had been telling tales to the younger elves throughout their dinner, no one had expressed interest in starting conversation with their group. The Dalish had eaten quietly, expressing deep interest in Sarel's stories, or staring into the fire. Every once in a while, she would catch a curious stare or a discrete glare. Zevran had eventually come down to join them, but remained slightly apart from everyone, indulging a taciturn silence. Leliana had been the only one to brave the invisible divide. She asked Sarel questions and seized a seat beside him, once the children had been summoned away. He was talkative and fairly congenial, although she could sense a subtle bite to much of what he had to say. His stories all narrated the past greatness of his people, but with continuous references to how the fall of the Dales had been caused mainly by betrayals perpetrated by humans. Jayne found herself biting her tongue, for she knew very well that Sarel was not lying. She felt, though, that she did not deserve to be on the receiving end of so much resentment and was confused as to how to respond without insulting him and making their precarious situation worse. Sten, surprisingly, challenged Sarel's accounts by questioning him about the Dalish people's response to those betrayals. Sarel engaged him.

"Oh, I am certain we played a part in our downfall. We believed that the Shemlen would not revoke their prophet's gift so lightly. We were wrong. They took our lands, forcing us to abandon our gods and live as beggars in Shemlen cities," he responded.

"You should have fought. You should have fought to the last of you. Better that than to submit," Sten stated dryly.

"Oh? Is it not the Qunari way to force others to submit? Surely that would not be your advice to my people were they attacked by the mighty Qunari."

Again with the cynical graciousness, Jayne thought, taking a deep breath.

"That would be different. The Qunari would improve your people. The humans have improved nothing," Sten responded matter-of-factually.

Thank you for the vote of confidence, Sten, she noted with great annoyance.

But then again, hadn't she and Alistair just been griping about the complete mess Ferelden had already cast itself in without aid from the Archdemon?

"Perhaps. Even so, many of us did fight. We fought and we lost."

And that concluded all conversation for a while. Jayne interrupted her discussion with the mages when she noticed an elf heading towards Zevran; it was the same archer who had invited them down earlier, moving swiftly and purposefully. She tensed up as he stopped before Zevran, who despite remaining relaxed as he sprawled out before the fire, measured him with an icy stare.

"I wish to tell you I am sorry for my words earlier," the archer said, to Jayne's surprise,

Across from them, Lenaya looked on, approvingly.

"Abelas," the elf said, with formal contrition, before turning away.

Zevran observed him walk towards the aravels and then shrugged, unimpressed.

She turned back to Wynne and Morrigan.

"You mentioned you sensed something strange before the attack last night."

They huddled in closer, conspiratorially.

"Well, it was magic, definitely," Wynne whispered, "but nothing I recognize. It is a spell… one that appears to have permeated this region…and evolved. It is very old— there are familiar elements to it— yet, it feels strange and foreign."

"That's because it is a curse," Morrigan insisted. "It is not Blood Magic; it is Elemental Spirit Magic."

"That's Blood Magic," Wynne countered, unconvinced.

"Yes, you would think so…but Elemental Spirit Magic does not require one to consort with entities from the Fade," Morrigan explained.

"All entities are connected to the Fade, in some shape or other," Wynne pointed out.

Morrigan shook her head, disagreeing.

"There are ancient beings who make their dwelling in places—forests, rivers, lakes, mountains… that become infused with power. A skillful practitioner of magic can evoke the being into spirit form."

"Still sounds like Blood Magic to me," Wynne sniffed.

"You would be wrong," she said bluntly.

"The question of what it should be called will have to remain unsolved for the moment," Jayne interrupted. "Right now I need you to decipher what the terms of this curse are. Who it binds… and possibly, who cast it," she requested. "Morrigan, I will need you to come with us tomorrow. You are familiar with…the less traditional branches of magic," she said carefully, so as not to insult Wynne. "Wynne, they have a few members of their clan who have been afflicted by this plague. I offered your healing expertise to their Keeper, and he has welcomed it. While you tend to the sick, I need you to examine them for any signs that may provide us with greater knowledge of what we are facing."

The women agreed, sitting back again once Leliana began strumming a melody on Sarel's lute. Sarel complimented her skill, and she smiled brightly, in her sweet, childlike manner.

Leliana has been betrayed by humans, too. She fights her own internal battles, a sinister past, despite her kind and sensitive nature. All of us here have suffered some kind of betrayal. That is how it is. Humans betray humans, why wouldn't they extend the same treatment to Dwarves, Dalish, and Qunari? she wondered. Why not simply presume that trust should be earned, not given? Why expect that all humans be the same? she thought frustratedly. Had the Dalish been that innocent? That pure?

She sought out those translucent gold eyes that fascinated her so much. Zevran appeared lost in his own thoughts, somewhere far away, beyond her reach. She excused herself and rose, walking towards him. He observed her as she approached, a serene expression on his face.

"Hello, Warden."

"You and I have to talk right now," she said, pointing back to their camp.

"We do?" He sat up, slightly more interested. "What about?" he asked provocatively.

"You," she said.

He pointed to himself, a questioning expression in his eyes. Then he pointed again, but towards his crotch, brazenly arching his eyebrows.

Jayne kicked him in the leg.

"That is so very crass."

"Such tempestuousness and fire. You treat me so roughly, and yet, I keep coming back for more…" he teased, rubbing his shin.

As they approached their small, crowded camp, they found Oghren sitting by the fire roasting some meat over the flames while Rune waited dutifully beside him. From Rune's singular focus on the skewer and constant licking of his chops, she presumed a few bits of meat had already been earned. Bodhan was speaking to Oghren about the fickleness of establishing the market value for something or other, while Sandal polished different objects from Bodhan's chest of goods with intense concentration. She sat farther away from them and Zevran settled down beside her.

"Would you tell me what is on your mind?" she inquired more gently.

He blinked at her slowly, studying her warmly for a moment. She was tempted to reach for his hand. But then he was back to his usual antics.

"Wouldn't you rather I showed you what is in my pants?" he suggested.

This time he deflected the punch aimed at his arm.

"I want to talk to you," she insisted. "Why won't you tell me what is going on? Ever since we have run into the Dalish, you have been in a very peculiar mood," she insisted.

"My apologies, Warden. I won't be any further trouble. I promise," he stated dismissively.

"It's not that!" she cried. "Why won't you talk to me without evading my questions?"

"Perhaps I feel better by not talking about it!" he retorted.

She raised her hands at him exasperatedly.

"Fine!" she exclaimed, at a loss.

"Are we done?" he asked, pushing himself up.

"Stay," she said, thinking of how to placate him. "I am very bad at this," she lamented. "I'd like to… remain by your side."

"You know you can have me anytime," he said flirtatiously.

"No…I didn't mean just…like…in that way. You are not yourself. I want to…"

To what?

"Be here. For you. I'm worried."

He sighed and fell back beside her.

"Why trouble yourself?" he asked.

"I cannot help it," she said, looking down at her boots.

"There is a saying in Antiva," he said, "that goes like this: 'The Crocciatori crab is always a bright green before it turns black, once plunged into boiling water."

She searched Zevran's face for a hint.

"I give up," she finally declared. "I swear, something must get lost in translation with these Antivan sayings."

He smirked and rubbed his chin.

"It just means you might think you are getting one thing, but really be in store for another. Be careful what you ask for. You may not like what you get. "

"I think you make these up," she grumbled.

At this, he laughed lightheartedly.

"These sayings have to start somewhere, no?"

He grabbed a twig near his feet and began to scratch the ground before them.

"I've always been intrigued by the Dalish," he mused. "I told you I was raised in a whorehouse before I was sold off to the Crows. What I did not tell you is that my mother was Dalish, herself."

Jayne studied him with curiosity. She had always thought that he had been the child of elves very much like the ones in the alienages throughout Ferelden.

"Her clan used to trade with merchants just outside Antiva. During one such trip, she met a woodcutter who was working near her camp. The rest, as they say, is a sad, but all-too-common story. She decided to follow him back to Antiva City and broke all ties with her clan. Of course, he was a miserable woodcutter with nowhere to even drop dead, so when he did finally contract some filthy disease, my mother found herself burdened with his debts. It was her great misfortune that she was a beautiful elf. Had she been ugly, she would have been sent to one of the workhouses, or perhaps become a lowly maid or laundress. But no— beauty commands its own currency, and she was sold to a whorehouse to pay off her dead lover's debts."

He smashed the twig into the dirt.

"Soon after, she realized she was with child— that would be me. She died giving birth; she died before she even laid eyes on me. My first victim, as it were." He paused, looking away.

"That's all I knew about her for a while," he resumed. "That she had inconveniently died, instantly making me a burden to others. But she had met someone while there— an older prostitute who ended up watching over the children at the brothel. Make no mistake, she was no motherly figure: she was as cruel as they come. But I reminded her of my mother. And my mother had apparently been the quiet sort, and this woman had mistaken that for some kind of respect…maybe even friendship…who knows? She would tell me these things about her and one day she even gave me a pair of leather gloves that had belonged to her. They were unmistakably Dalish: finely crafted, embroidered…so very soft. I do not know why she decided to give them to me, but I suspect it may have been because negotiations for my sale to the Crows were already underway. Do you know…for a few years afterwards, while I was small, until they were taken away from me, I would go somewhere I could be all by myself, and put on the gloves and pat myself on the head, pretending it was my mother's hand." He let out a sad laugh. "I used to dream that my mother's Dalish clan would come to reclaim me. But of course, they probably did not even know I existed. The only other elves I knew were like myself or living in the alienage in Antiva City. They taught me all the Dalish I would ever want to know: 'Len'alas lath'din,'" he repeated. "It means 'filthy child unloved by all.' It makes you wonder when a language has an expression for that…And so, my dear nosey Warden, you now know why I am out of sorts, as you would say, among the Dalish," he completed, a fierceness in his eyes.

"I am sorry, Zevran," she managed to say.

"You'd better not be, after bothering me so much to tell you," he scolded.

Jayne turned away and sniffed, wiping the back of her hand quickly over her eyes.

"At least I fetched a high price when I was sold to the Crows. Other children did not fare so well. Their stories are much worse. Alas, we don't have the barrel of ale for that."

She took a deep, shaky breath, trying to regain her composure.

"Come now, your story isn't much happier."

"I'm not saying it is," she argued, finally facing him.

But I was happy as a child. I was loved.

The thought of Zevran, small and frightened, beaten, scorned, sold and traded around like a common, disposable thing, trying to comfort himself as he longed for his mother, broke her heart. He hadn't been much younger than Oren, she realized. How can anyone do violence to a child? she wondered, her stare hardening.

"I live to tell my story, at least," Zevran broke the silence at last.

She pondered his words before reaching over and entwining his hand in hers, tightly. She stood up and tugged his arm.

"Come to my tent."

Nearby, Bodhan stopped mid sentence.

"Time for enchantment?" Sandal wondered.

"Emm…Why don't you go get some more things to polish over there," Bodhan promptly distracted the boy as Oghren cast them a bawdy, approving grin.

Love him: body and soul. Nothing is certain, there are no guarantees.

Leliana was right, of course. Hadn't life been telling her as much for the past months?

"I trust we are here to summon the Archdemon?" he inquired, inside the tent.

"What?" she asked confusedly.

"Every time we have tried this, disaster strikes."

She reached for him, taking his angular face in her hands and kissing him ardently.

"Here's a Fereldan saying," she said, brushing her nose against his, their breaths quickening. "It goes like this, 'Third time is a charm.'"

"Hmmm," he grinned rakishly. "We are aiming for three times in one evening? I like these Fereldan expressions!"

"Can we try to get at least one time down?" she asked, leading him to her bedroll.

"I don't think the Archdemon himself could stop me right now— nothing could," he told her in a low, husky voice, reaching beneath her shirt, his touch light and tantalizing.

She inadvertently let out a sigh and heard him chuckle softly, before his head disappeared from view underneath her tunic. His lips traced their way up from her stomach towards her breasts, provocative little kisses lingering deliciously over her skin.

A streak of defiant mischief possessed her.

"Oh, yes…Oghren!" she moaned, slightly arching her back.

He stopped immediately, pulling out his head from beneath her tunic, his fine hair disheveled, an expression of false horror on his face.

"You are an impossible, heartless woman, you know that?" he said in disbelief.

She laughed at his reaction.

"Very well, then," he declared, determinedly yanking off his shirt, tossing it across the tent, and unbuckling her belt in a smooth swoop. "You, my feisty Warden, are going to be calling out MY name in a moment."

She was about to retort when he hungrily covered her lips with his and leaned her back into the blankets. He unceremoniously unbuttoned her breeches, grazing his fingers playfully around the last button. Her breath hitched and he gazed at her with lusty, half closed eyes before his hand slipped down between the cloth and her skin. This time, she arched her back in earnest.


	12. Chapter 12

Jayne awoke with a faint clinking sound above her. Zevran was dressing himself, his back turned away. She stirred. He looked over his shoulder in surprise.

"Forgive me— I did not mean to awaken you."

"Where are you going?" she protested sleepily.

He sat down next to her, running his thumb over her cheek.

"I am going back to my tent. You will not want to deal with the looks you will get from the others if I am seen emerging from your tent tomorrow morning."

She frowned.

"I'm not concerned about that and you shouldn't be either." She sat up.

"Ah," he interjected, planting a light kiss on her forehead, "but you should. It may be none of their business, but I assure you it will affect them. Trust me on this— I have seen the best alliances fall apart because of jealousy and petty resentment."

She stared at the ground in disbelief. _That's right. We are two people who have agreed to seek our pleasure from each other. That is all this is— all I should expect —nothing more._

His thumb brushed over her lips and he leaned in for another kiss.

"You are a beautiful woman," he whispered.

She watched him raise the tent flap, but instead of leaving, he remained still, lost in thought.

"Warden," he said, a hesitant tone in his voice. "I've a question, if I may."

"Go ahead."

He crouched down beside her.

" Well here is the thing: I swore an oath to serve you, yes? And I understand the quest you're on and this is all very fine and well…My question pertains to what you intend to do with me once this business is over with." He paused. "As a point of curiosity."

"Before or after you ravish me?" she said suggestively, folding her arms around his neck.

"The ravishing part is a given," he replied, playfully wresting her arms off him and seeking her eyes. "But one simply assumes that once your Grey Warden business is finished, you would have no need of an assassin to follow you about. Am I wrong?"

"I'm not holding you to any oath," she reassured him, trying to disguise her disappointment. "You may leave whenever you want."

"Oh? I made the oath willingly, but if that's how you see it, then all the better." He spoke calmly, but she could detect a hint of surprise. "For the moment it's best I stay, considering my standing with the Crows," he muttered pensively. He raised his honey-colored eyes to her. "But let's assume that I didn't desire to leave, when the time came. What then?"

She held her breath, her heart pounding, the words catching in her throat.

_I can't say it. I'll be like every other lover who tried to cling to him. I'll scare him off forever._

Her laughter came out shakier than she intended it to.

"I can think of a use or two for a handsome elf," she joked.

The tension appeared to fade as he smirked.

"I'm sure that I could come up with a few more, if pressed…" He rose and walked away from her. "It is good to know what my options might be. But that is for another time. For now, we have much to do, yes?"

_Werewolves,_ she remembered with a groan.

"I didn't mean to evoke such unpleasant thoughts," he laughed. He lingered at the exit. "Anyway, good night, sweet Warden."

She sat in confusion as he stepped out. Had he been seeking for some reassurance? Had she understood correctly? She was left with the eerie impression that she had missed an opportunity. Something strange had just passed between them— another misunderstanding? She sighed in frustration.

_What's the right thing to do? Do I let him walk away thinking that this is just for pleasure, that he is being used? Or do I risk telling him how I truly feel and disappoint him…because this was intended to be lighthearted?_

_Blasted!_

She seized her blanket, roughly wrapping herself and peering outside.

"Zevran," she called out over the silent camp.

The firelight revealed his startled expression as he glanced back towards her, watching in surprise as she rushed to him, her hair spilling wildly over her shoulders, the blanket wrapped haphazardly over her torso, feet bare on damp grass. Before he could even speak, she buried her face in his chest and held him tightly.

"What is it?" he asked.

She shook her head.

_I can't tell you. I can't tell you._

His hand rubbed her back soothingly.

_I don't want to let you go._

_"_ Come," he finally said, "at this rate you are going to catch your death of a cold. And that would look pathetic on a commemorative plaque."

She couldn't move. _I like you far more than I should._

He gently steered her back to her tent.

"What's the matter?" he insisted."I will stay with you until you fall asleep. Is that alright?"

She nodded.

"You are a strange woman."

He pulled back the blankets and settled on the bedroll, beckoning her beside him with his hand.

"I thought you said I was beautiful!" she objected, easing herself next to him and resting her head on his shoulder.

"Beautiful, strange…Your wonders never cease, dear Warden…You make me, of all people, think that—" he cut himself short. He played with strands of her hair as she huddled closely to him. "The strangest thoughts…" his voice trailed off.


	13. Chapter 13

"Will you make the trade?" Bodhan asked eagerly, eyeing the finely crafted daggers and swords the Dalish merchant had set out before them.

"I have no use for these," the elf scowled, examining the wares remaining in Bodhan's chest: two pewter chalices, several Dwarven daggers, and an assortment of trinkets: necklaces, cuff bracelets, and a tangle of chains. Bodhan surveyed his goods disappointedly. He'd had a decent inventory before they had all plundered his chests for useful items during their treks. He managed a ridiculous billing list which everyone had solemnly vowed to pay off someday.

"Put it on my bill!" he'd be told, anytime one of them had found something worthwhile during one of their scavenging fits for something or another.

Jayne felt slightly guilty over it— it was the dwarf's livelihood, after all.

_But there would have been no livelihood to be had if they hadn't saved him and Sandal and allowed them to tag along._

He tried to restock anytime he could— he had been somewhat appeased when they'd sojourned in Orzammar, succeeding in trading surface goods for Dwarven items, but it wasn't as if he had ample opportunity to display his merchandise at some busy city square. _His is a bad career choice in the middle of a Blight,_ she concluded.

Sandal pushed past her carefully, balancing two large and heavy bolts of thick fabric in his short arms. He delivered them to the elf, placing them down at his feet before waddling away.

"I also have these two fine bolts of brushed flannel," Bodhan indicated enthusiastically. He pinched the edge and rubbed the cloth between his fingers. "Very fine quality," he said, satisfied. The elf leaned over and fingered the cloth, interest in his eyes.

"It's light, but thickly woven. It'll make good layering clothing in the winter," he mused.

Bodhan smiled, pleased.

"Two bolts for four daggers and two swords then?"

The elf pursed his lips pondering the offer.

"The daggers, yes. The swords, no."

"Then one bolt for the daggers?

"The daggers are certainly more valuable than one bolt. Two bolts for the four daggers."

"Two bolts for the daggers…and one sword?" Bodhan countered.

"You are getting a good deal as it is!" the merchant said, as if insulted.

Bodhan shrugged. "I'm sorry we won't be doing business."

Bodhan waved Sandal back and began to pack away his goods. The elf continued to steal glances at the bolts of cloth.

"Two bolts for the four daggers and a regular bow!" the elf offered.

"Let me see the bow!" Bodhan raised his eyebrow.

The elf ran into his aravel.

"Bodhan, he drives a hard bargain," she commented.

"Not really. He is eager to do business."

"Really?" Jayne marveled.

"This is very typical when we bargain for our wares."

The elf came out with an armful of bows and leaned them against the side of the aravel for Bodhan to examine.

Jayne had been waiting for Alistair, Sten, and Morrigan to finish getting prepared for their scouting excursion through the forest. She had revealed to them Zathrian's request, and attempted to explain they were seeking out half human, half wolf creatures. The fact none of them balked was a testament to all the ordeals they had already endured.

Sten awaited impassively by Alistair's tent, his arms folded over his chest, as Alistair nervously attempted to shave.

"All this will succeed in accomplishing is making me maim myself," he complained as Sten stared.

"Ah, excellent, Alistair. At last an opponent you can defeat!" Zevran zinged, lying back in the grass.

Morrigan cut past them, an empty cup clenched in her hands and thrust forward as if it were a dousing stick. She appeared especially haggard and bleary-eyed.

"Behold the Wild Beauty of the Korcari!" he remarked flippantly.

"I sincerely hope you go bald," she sneered, surveying the camp. "Is there any root tea? I need some strong, black tea."

"We may be all out," Leliana replied, unsure. "Oghren, what's left in the herb satchel?"

"We better not be all out of root tea!" Morrigan stated menacingly.

"Zap…Frog time," Alistair muttered, gingerly running the razor down his cheek.

"It would be a vast improvement in your case, believe me!" Morrigan snapped. "Do we at least have biscuits left?" she asked Leliana, who had been sorting through the satchel.

She shot her an apologetic glance.

"We are down to one biscuit," she revealed, biting her lip.

"How can that be? Yesterday we still had a dozen! Who is responsible for this…this…mayhem!" she growled.

Sten cleared his throat.

"That is pitiful!" Morrigan scowled at him. "I think the only thing we have to fear from the Qunari is a thorough ransacking of all of Ferelden's bakeries!"

"Morrigan, Morrigan, you look so irresistible with your eye twitching like that…Have you ever considered that perhaps you wouldn't be so unsettled in the morning if you applied some of your energy in pursuit of more…carnal pleasures?" Zevran winked.

They all turned their heads to stare at him in disbelief.

"Perhaps you are correct. I would derive great pleasure in hanging you from the fingernails over a cliff!"

"You naughty girl! I could tell you are the kind who likes it more on the rough side."

All the others listened in frozen horror. Jayne focused her attention back at Bodhan. Behind her a bright flash of light crackled followed by the sounds of frantic scurrying.

"How DARE you use Wynne as a shield!" Morrigan accused, moments later.

"Great! Now I have gone and cut myself!" Alistair cried out. "Do we have anything to stop the bleeding, or did Sten eat that too?"

Jayne turned again to them warily, wondering if it was time to intervene.

Morrigan prepared to fire another bolt at Zevran, but he raised his hands appeasingly.

"My apologies, my fair Morrigan. Allow me to bring you the last biscuit as a peace offering," he bowed, seizing the biscuit from Leliana's hand.

He sauntered over and offered it to her. As she foolishly reached for it, he impishly pulled his hand back and slowly, theatrically, and deliberately, licked the biscuit. Morrigan inhaled deeply, her eyes two slits. Leliana actually gasped.

"I hate you all."

"I'll eat that," Sten announced, taking the biscuit.

Jayne wondered if she could persuade the Archdemon to give up on attacking Ferelden. All the evidence she needed to plead her case was animatedly squabbling behind her.

Bodhan shook the elf's hand amicably.

"'T'was a pleasure doing business with you!"

"Bodhan, if I were you, I'd stay away from them right now," she suggested, pointing over her shoulder. She wandered to the bows and examined the elegant swords on display.

"Do you mind if I try this?" she asked the elf, holding up one of the swords. Dalish smithing enjoyed a legendary reputation: Dalish swords were famous for being light and the blades sharp.

"That is an excellent sword," the elf remarked.

He went on to explain how strong it was, how it would never break in battle, and went on tediously about how the high heat in the kiln burned off all impurities in the metal melting in the crucible before the forging began, and Jayne politely listened as her eyes wandered. Her eyes alighted upon a pair of striking leather gloves. Noticing the shift in interest, the merchant did not skip a beat.

"Those are the finest gloves you will ever have! They are made of the softest leather, carefully cured in a solution made from the Tammipuu, right here in the Brecilian Forest," he stated, launching into another long-winded production tale.

Sturdy and thick, she noted, and when she turned them around, fine embroidery in dark gold adorned them: a tree with a thick trunk, its branches swirls of glimmering thread.

"That's an oak tree," the elf continued. "Vhenadahl."

Jayne stared at the gloves, finally placing them over her hands. Warm fur lined them, luxuriously soft to the touch, but too large for her.

_I know a pair of beautiful hands they would fit, though._

"How much?" she asked, reaching for the small pouch of coins inside her vest, beneath her armor. The elf stopped her, waving his hands.

"No…No gold. I only trade for other goods right now. I don't think we'll be near a city anytime soon, given everything that is going on."

Jayne grimaced. What did she have that she could trade?

"I would consider trading you those gloves for the two Dwarven paring knives," he offered tentatively.

Jayne cast Bodhan a pleading look. He shook his head with resignation.

"Go ahead, Warden…I'll put it on your bill…"


	14. Chapter 14

"And I don't get to go again why?" Zevran asked, hands on his hips.

"I told you: The Dalish are being attacked by werewolves, who are transmitting an incurable plague to them. You stay here."

"I am immune to this plague," he declared.

Jayne squinted at him.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm already a beast," he grinned cockily.

"Does everything you say have to be so ridiculously perverted? Must you really carry on like this?" Alistair complained.

"Here is the problem," Jayne interrupted, signaling them to come closer. "I suspect the Keeper is withholding important details. I want to see what we can find out on our own and perhaps, if we are very lucky, even get the chance to talk to one of these creatures. We have been ordered to find the one called Witherfang, kill it, and bring its heart back. Zathrian insists it is the only cure. I am not so certain. I believe we are caught in the middle of something far more complex. These creatures… They are half-human, after all! Our chances of interacting with them are better if we appear neutral and don't show up with any Dalish… or elves in our party."

"I am being discriminated against for my handsome looks again," he sulked.

"You can help Leliana," she suggested. "Wynne's gathering as much information as she can on the plague and how those afflicted contracted it. Leliana is going to spend some time with Sarel and find out from him if there is any past history, any connection to what might be happening now."

"I would rather go with the scouting party. I find a brisk walk in the woods may be restorative, given I had a most arduous, intense evening…" he gestured towards the foggy woods.

Jayne felt a flush of warmth tingle over her body at his sultry tone. Leliana, who'd brought them their refilled water canteens, shook her head.

"You are especially terrible today. I wonder what's gotten into you," she muttered.

 _Or who_ …Jayne thought bemusedly.

_What?_

_Jayne!_

She slapped her cheeks with both hands, her face stinging. Leliana stared at her out of the corner of her eyes.

"Why are you so determined to go?" she pressed him with renewed interest, a devious grin emerging on her lips as she examined Jayne.

"I take my duties to those, how do you say?…On top of me… very seriously…" he insinuated.

Flashes of the night before came back to her mind vividly and she began rubbing her cheeks more vigorously.

"It would not have anything to do with being a little soft on our Warden, would it?" Leliana giggled.

"I never go soft, my dear—"

"Can you two go double each other's entendres somewhere else? We have werewolves to catch now," Alistair shooed them off.

Sten and Morrigan waited ahead at the Dalish camp's entrance.

Jayne attempted to recompose herself and spoke with great authority.

"Yes, go back to camp. When we return, I'll need you to provide us with any information you were able to gather."

"Be careful in the forest," Leliana admonished them, stepping away.

"I will be looking forward to our… debriefing, Warden," Zevran waved.

"Onwards!" Jayne shouted, a bit too loudly, turning away as quickly as she could.


	15. Chapter 15

The Brecilian Forest lingered in a dull haze. As they forged deeper into the woods, the trails vanished, and they plodded through a thick padding of leaves.

"It is not right, this silence," Morrigan remarked. "Whatever magic is at work here, it has affected not only the animals, but the forest itself."

"It has to be a recent change, then," Jayne observed. "This forest is in decay; such a thing is not sustainable."

"I have the feeling we have been wandering in circles for the past hour," Alistair noted.

Morrigan gave him a poisonous glare.

"If you have a problem with my leading the way, then suit yourself. I can find my path back to the Dalish camp. Can you?"

"It was just an observation— more about the forest than about your abilities to forage in the wilds."

"Listen to you. Forage in the wilds…You certainly did not find me raking my fingers over the dirt, scavenging for some tubers."

"No, no…you were just lurking between desolate ruins in the wilderness, spying. Just you and the dead bird on your shoulder. Infinitely better scenario."

"It definitely was, for you. I took you to Flemeth."

"Were we intended as an appetizer or as a main course?" he teased.

"As a dessert. A sorbet. Your particular flavor would be 'stupid.'"

"Why do you always go on about how stupid I am? I'm not stupid, am I?" he asked, looking at Jayne and Sten for support.

"If you need to ask the question…" She raised her eyebrows.

"Because it hurts my manly feelings, you know. All one of them."

"Then I'll be sure to write you an apology once all of this is over."

"I was educated by the Chantry. I studied history. They don't make stupid Templars."

"Then I must have been mistaken. I'm very impressed," she quipped acerbically.

"No you're not. You're not even listening to me."

"My, you are smarter than you look after all. Your Chantry must have been very proud," she offered with chilling sweetness.

Sten halted and swiveled to their left. Jayne had heard it too. As Alistair and Morrigan engaged in their usual bickering, the fog had rolled in, denser. Just beyond the thick, smokey veil, leaves rustled. She raised her hand, beckoning for silence. They remained still, listening. The fog held, but no more sounds emanated from behind it.

"We passed this clearing before," Sten remarked. "We are walking in circles."

"You are right," Morrigan conceded, examining the trees just ahead.

"That's it?" Alistair cried incredulously. "When I made that observation, I got called 'stupid.' Sten said the same exact thing and he got a 'that's right'?"

"That's right, Alistair," she smiled ironically. "There you go. Happy now?"

"Parshaara!" Sten said impatiently.

"How is this possible?" Jayne wondered.

They had been moving in the same direction, as far as they could tell. How could it be that they had backtracked without realizing it?

"It is simple enough: a spell to misdirect and a spell to conceal," Morrigan explained.

Jayne narrowed her eyes.

"Then we must be getting close…"

"To what, though?" Alistair asked. "We do not even know what we are looking for."

"Then we just keep looking until we do…" her voice trailed off.

Staring at them, only steps ahead, was the inquisitive face of a white wolf. Jayne froze in place, holding her breath. The others remained still, also, waiting for her command. The creature peered at her curiously, its eyes large and dark, but unmistakably aware. Jayne crouched, unsure as to why she was doing so— did she expect the wolf to saunter over to her as Rune would? Yet, she could sense this creature had come to her deliberately, purposefully. The wolf examined her as if wondering about her. She went as far as believing the animal appeared melancholy.

 _End this…_ a woman's voice pleaded.

The voice, as unsubstantial as a thought, brushed through her like a breeze.

"Morrigan," she whispered urgently. Morrigan stood behind her, as intrigued. "What should I do? Should I attempt to speak to it?"

"I do not think this encounter is on your terms…This is no ordinary wolf," Morrigan cautioned.

Jayne leaned in farther, extending her hand. _I mean you no harm,_ Jayne focused on the creature in hopes that maybe her expression, body language, or thoughts would communicate her intent. The wolf tensed and cowed.

 _No!_ she thought with a pang of regret.

From behind their group, low growls erupted. Sten and Alistair whirled around, lifting their swords.

"Wolves!" Alistair shouted.

A large gray one lunged forward. Sten stepped forth, thrusting out his sword and skewering it cleanly. Another leapt at Alistair and he fell backwards, pushing its gnashing maw away from his face. The wolf toppled to the side, with a loud yelp, and Alistair struck it down forcefully. Jayne turned back to the white wolf, a sinking feeling assailing her.

It was gone.

More wolves charged at them and Jayne unsheathed her sword. She did not like engaging the wolves.

 _This is unnatural_ , she thought, as her blade slashed through their flesh. _And yet, they leave us no choice!_

They had cut down five wolves and retreated over a makeshift bridge, a plank, over a lake before they noticed the next pack head towards them.

"Be at the ready," Jayne commanded, settling into a defensive stance. These other wolves, however, ran strangely, their bodies moving heavily until she noticed they had arms and used their knuckles to impel them forwards. They stopped at the other end of the bridge, and to her amazement, stood up, on muscular, elongated legs, straightening out their shoulders as they rose. Sten stepped forward in preparation to strike. The creatures bristled, low growls emerging from their throats. She seized his arm.

"Stand down! On my orders only!" she commanded tensely.

 _So these are the werewolves_ , she gaped.

They stood a good head over Sten even, sinewy, strong, and terrifying. Their eyes unsettled her: clearly human eyes, but affixed onto grotesque, monstrous heads. Their muzzles protruded forward, pointed fangs exposed as they breathed heavily.

One of them, the dark brown pelted one, his fair skin exposed only slightly at the chest, let out a strangled sound— something between a hiss and a growl. She realized he was struggling to speak.

"The Watch-Wolves have spoken truly, my brothers and sisters. The Dalish have sent someone to put us in our place, come to make us pay for our attack!" he articulated with difficulty, between breaths.

"I have not come here for that reason."

"I do not care why you are here!" he stated ferociously. "You intrude in our forest and you are not welcome!" He attempted to stand taller.

She drew in a deep breath to stay her nerves.

"You speak to Swiftrunner. I lead my cursed brothers and sisters," he muttered roughly, growling. "Turn back now and go back to the Dalish and tell them that you have failed!" His companions encroached upon them, growling, too. "Tell them we will gladly watch them suffer the same curse we have suffered for too long. We will watch them pay!"

"I have not come here to fight you or your people. I want to understand. What is this curse—"

"Was it not Zathrian who sent you?" he roared. "He wishes only our destruction! Never to talk!"

"Who is Witherfang?" she asked boldly.

Swiftrunner exhaled loudly, shifting his weight backwards while contemplating their group.

"Witherfang," he explained at last, "is the first and the eldest. This forest is his home, and you will never see him…If you are lucky."

"I seek to parley with Witherfang," she declared.

Swiftrunner recoiled, his eyes glistening savagely.

"I know why you seek him and it is not to speak! We are done speaking!" He crouched menacingly, pacing before her. "Run from the forest while you can. Run to the Dalish and tell them they are doomed!"

"Swiftrunner," Jayne spoke firmly, but entreatingly, " I did not come here to fight you, but I will not draw back under your threats." She clutched her sword's pommel tightly.

She sought his eyes.

 _Please listen to reason,_ she hoped.

He stared at her hostilely, but finally stopped pacing.

"I do not wish to fight you, either," he admitted. "But we cannot trust you," he snarled.

He turned sideways to the other werewolves.

"Come, brothers and sisters, let us retreat. The forest has eyes of its own, and it will deal with intruders…as it always has…" They fell down on their hands once more, rapidly coursing away from them, through the brush and fading into the mist.

"Maker…what was that?" Alistair broke their silence.

"Zathrian owes us an explanation about the 'savage and unrelenting' monsters we just had a conversation with," Jayne stated, darkly. She sheathed her sword. It was as she suspected: Zathrian and the Dalish appeared to be involved in some kind of conflict with the werewolves. She resented being told to take sides before receiving all the information. She had not liked the Keeper upon meeting him, despite his formal and polite ways. He had appeared too calculating and eager to send her off on her errand. What had they been so deliberately dragged into?

"Morrigan, can you get us back to camp?"

"The spell will weaken gradually as we move away from its source. It may take us a while and a few more circles, but it won't be too difficult."

They moved through the forest purposefully, finding themselves traveling away from the fog. They had an unpleasant encounter with a frenzied bear, who attacked them virulently. They had been able to defeat it easily, but Jayne had the distinct realization that whatever events had been set into motion, they were no longer contained to the original parties. The malaise spread beyond, afflicting the forest. It was as Wynne had said: the air itself was poisoned.

"I was right," Morrigan smugly announced. "It is a curse."

"Well, the werewolf did say it was," Alistair retorted.

"But I said it first," she argued.

"But it sounds more authentic coming from him," Alistair shrugged.

"You think you are getting me back for the Sten comment, don't you?" she accused.

 _Here we go again,_ Jayne thought, letting them engage in yet another battle. Sten kept pace with her.

"You acted wisely," he told her. "You are right in not wielding your sword blindly merely because these beings appear to be different."

She merely nodded, knowing better than to thank him; he'd only argue crossly that it was a fact, not flattery or praise.

"Wisdom," he continued, much to her surprise, " is like breath. You need it, but no other can give you theirs."

She stared at his hard, stern face as they walked.

"Besides wisdom, I place my trust in something else," she replied.

"And what would that be?"

"Chance."

"I don't understand."

"I don't either," she continued, under the Qunari's intrigued gaze. "I don't even try. I move forward, fully aware that I actually control very little, but trusting that despite the chaos surrounding us, every step I take shifts the odds in our favor."

"Hm," he stated pensively.

"So tell me, then: what was the name of Andraste's husband?" Alistair's voice carried back to them, a defiant edge to his question.

She became aware that they had been arguing the whole time she and Sten had been chatting.

"This is a religious question, not an academic one," Morrigan patiently explained.

"You're joking, right? A five year-old could answer that question. Do you not know more than a child?"

"I care nothing for your religion. And this game of yours is over," she declared haughtily, pushing ahead of him.

"Oh, how the mighty have crumbled," he stated triumphantly.

"Yes," Sten continued to her, ignoring the quibbling ahead, " a good strategist knows when to strike and when to retreat, when to attack and when to speak. Restraint is as important as decisiveness. You would make a good Qunari, Kadan."

He'd taken to calling her 'Kadan" ever since they had recovered his sword, Asala, in Redcliffe. She did not dare ask him what it meant, but noted, touched, the reverent tone anytime he used it. A compliment from Sten was a rare, precious occurrence. She peered down at the leafy trail, the subtle hint of a smile emerging upon her lips.


	16. Chapter 16

Few things were trying her patience as much as the evasiveness she'd encountered among the Dalish. She'd been attempting to seek an audience with the Keeper for the past hour since returning to camp, but found herself thwarted by Mithra, who guarded the Keeper's aravel with an unrelenting zeal. When she requested to see Zathrian, Mithra had returned with a subtle ultimatum.

"He desires to know if you found Witherfang."

"My words are for him alone," she replied, her patience waning.

Mithra disappeared once more only to return moments later, addressing her curtly and dismissively.

"The Keeper cannot be disturbed right now. He wishes to emphasize the importance of your finding Witherfang…and completing your mission."

"I have some questions regarding this mission," Jayne surveyed the aravel's entrance. She could force her way through, she realized. All she had to do was incapacitate Mithra with a well aimed punch and push past the young elf guard standing rigidly before the door. It would undoubtedly start an ugly incident and put everyone else in the camp at risk. The satisfaction of hurtling her fist into Mithra's stomach and tossing the guard over the railing would be short-lived, she knew, but imagining it was the only thing keeping her from actually engaging them.

"I have the right to speak to your Keeper," she insisted, her stance more threatening. "I've been charged with a sensitive mission; I am in every position to demand an explanation."

Her hostile undertone had not gone unnoticed or unappreciated. Another soldier hurried towards them. Mithra curtly issued him orders while staring at her, ready to react to any movements.

"Warden!" Lenaya appeared around the bend, her staff bobbing lightly towards them. "Perhaps I can be of aid!" she offered in a conciliatory tone.

Jayne backed down, secretly grateful for the interruption. She had worked herself into a modest rage. At the First's urging, she followed her into a nearby aravel, taking a comfortable seat near the warmth of a wood-burning stove.

"You mustn't begrudge Mithra—" Lenaya admonished her. "She is merely following orders."

"Why won't Zathrian talk to me?" Jayne complained. "He had no problem asking me to become involved in Dalish matters. He knows I have very little time— WE have very little time," she emphasized. "The Blight will be upon us soon."

Lenaya rested her staff behind the door before turning to the stove, placing a kettle on it.

"Keeper Zathrian intends to honor the treaty, but before anything, this matter needs to be resolved. He cannot…" She stopped as if considering the next words she uttered. "He is not well."

"Is there a problem with his mental faculties?" Jayne wondered.

She examined Lenaya more carefully. Was she trying to tell her something?

_It isn't unusual to see those who had been in power hesitate to relinquish their positions once the time has come_.

Lenaya sat across from her, leaning back on a frayed cushion. Her eyes turned to the ceiling and she appeared to be choosing her words carefully.

"I do not doubt his mental capacities. But I am worried about him." She rubbed her forehead. "You will not find anyone in this camp, even among our elders, who does not remember life before the gracious guidance and protection of Zathrian."

"He is that aged?" Jayne wondered aloud, thinking that he did not appear much older than her own father had been.

"Oh, older," Lenaya smiled sadly. "He has never confirmed it, nor has he denied it, but we believed for a very long time that Zathrian was the last of the true elders, here to guide us, to lead us. He is so very ancient, Warden. The things he has seen, has lived through…all that he knows…"

"You said 'believed,'" Jayne noted.

"Yes…" She stood once again and headed towards the stove. She tossed a pinch of dry herbs into the kettle and pulled out two clay cups from her cupboard. "I always thought he would go in Uthenera."

"But…" she prompted her.

"We have always had an uneasy truce with the werewolves," she confessed. "They have been here for as long as we can remember— always, it seems. But they did not cross our path before and gave us a wide berth in the forest. But at the beginning of the season, when we arrived to the settlement, everything seemed different. The werewolves began to engage our patrols, attack our hunters, and wreak this plague upon us. Zathrian had always kept us safe…but something shifted. I can sense it. He can no longer hold them at bay. The forest is dying, Warden…and I cannot help thinking that Zathrian's decline is somehow connected." She faced Jayne. "I am afraid for our Keeper, for our people, for our forest."

Jayne leaned forward.

"Lenaya, you need to find out what the shared past between the Keeper and the werewolves is."

"He will not…"

"How can you be his First if he will not trust you? It is your duty to preserve the history of your people!" Jayne stressed. She was aware of overstepping her bounds, but diplomacy had wasted almost two of their precious days so far.

"How can I go against my elder, my benefactor, the one person to whom I owe everything?" Lenaya objected. "Why can't you do as he bids you?"

"He is not my elder. I respect his position as Keeper, but I owe him no similar debt of gratitude. I have come to ask him to honor a treaty signed between the Dalish and the Grey Wardens." She avoided saying 'humans' and 'treaty' in the same sentence, fully aware of the dishonorable history between their peoples. "I am being ordered to meddle in affairs I do not comprehend! Commanded to murder another being or else! I have been told that werewolves are savage, their humanity long lost. Yet, the creatures I encountered in the forest standing up and looking me in the eyes when they spoke proove otherwise. Please," she implored, "There is more to this matter than what I have managed to gather and I would like to give Zathrian the opportunity to share the truth with me." She took the cup of tea Lenaya offered her. "Imagine that there is still a way to save your people, aid these creatures, and end all the bloodshed."

"You would help _them_?" Lenaya interrupted incredulously. "After all they have done to us? Haven't you seen how indiscriminately they attack us and pass on their affliction, destroying who we are at our very core? Are they worthy of your succor after what they have done to the Dalish?"

"As a leader, you must always seek to forge ahead with your people. You cannot allow the past to define all your interactions!"

Lenaya's eyes darkened.

"The past is why we find ourselves where we are, Warden. We cannot forget all the injustice and violence committed against us. It is what keeps us alive."

"Revenge is not the answer," Jayne countered.

"Isn't it?" Lenaya shook her head. "Are you preaching forgiveness to us, now? Have you found it within you to forgive the man called Rendon Howe?"

A crushing coldness splintered inside her.

"My affairs are none of your concern."

"Leliana told us your story. What she sees as your bravery to move forward, we understand as an old hatred. It's a dangerous and poisonous instrument, this hatred. Yet, it instills in us all a will to survive."

Jayne set down the cup heavily and stepped out of the aravel without another word.

Dusk settled as she walked to their camp.

_It is vanity that wishes to turn self interest into grand rhetoric,_ her father would say. _Be honest— but say little,_ had been his advice. No wonder Fergus used to tease her so much. _Mind the holes in your own socks!_ he'd laugh.

_Why have I endured all this?_ she asked herself, wandering up the small hill.

From the other side of the gentle slope she could see their camp.

_Do I keep fighting because I seek revenge?_ she worried, genuinely mystified.

She had played in her mind, time and again, how she would confront Howe someday. She took solace in the fact he knew she had survived and hoped his slumber was careworn for it. Thoughts of Howe propelled her forward, for sure, claiming and stoking any hatred she could ever summon, so that she could make semblance of considering everything else around her with relative levelheadedness.

_Howe…He will answer for his betrayal._ There was no doubt of it in her mind.

It wasn't even his death she anticipated, although it was the final price she would demand; she sought to make him feel helpless despite all the ill-begotten power he had accrued.

_You lie, Howe. But this story will not be yours to tell as you please for much longer._ Her hand trembled, and she crouched close to the ground. The campfire further down ahead dissolved into a blur.

_Lenaya is right. This hatred gives me strength. But what then? Even if I achieve all this? What then? There is nothing. Highever will forever be haunted to me. No act of revenge against Howe will bring the dead back. The pain will remain. No amount of righteous anger can change the truth: they were all brutally slaughtered and their last moments on this earth were of despair and pain._

_That does not change, no matter what I do._

She brought her wrists up to her eyes.

_I would have been truer to myself had I died with them. Maker, I'd give anything to go back to how it used to be. Anything._ She heaved a shaky breath.

_And it's Howe's doing,_ she peered down at her hands, the blood thrumming loudly in her ears. _It is Howe's fault that every loving memory I have of my family is besmirched with grief._ _Hate runs through my veins. Perhaps that is the secret to surviving the Joining Ritual,_ she thought.

_I was a suitable host. The Taint did not find me inhospitable._

She found herself weeping uncontrollably, her throat unable to utter any recognizable sounds other than gasps for breath as silent sobs racked her. As she gradually regained control of her breath and wiped the wetness off her cheeks, the searing pain dulled into an aching emptiness.

_I am not well._

She pushed herself up off the grassy ground, and gazed down at their camp, her thoughts vacant. Her feet carried her, she realized, to the circle of tents surrounding the fire. She disregarded Rune's enthusiastic greeting, eagerly jumping about her, seeking attention, as she approached the camp's water bucket.

A ladle rested against the rough wooden rim, the bottom of the bucket dry.

"Is there no water?" She glanced about crossly, a flickering annoyance surging forth.

"Oh!" Oghren cried out, "Last one to touch his nose has to go fetch more!"

She turned around to see him, Alistair, and Leliana rapidly raise their fingers to touch their noses. Morrigan absentmindedly touched hers without removing her eyes from her grimoire.

"Heh, Jayne! Looks like you have to—"

Before Oghren could finish, she had furiously dashed the bucket to the ground, kicking it forcefully, halfway across the camp.

"Looks like I have to EVERYTHING!" she roared.

She marched up to them and halted menacingly before Leliana.

"I gave you a mission, but apparently it is too difficult to overcome the impulse to be the center of attention," she hissed angrily, thrusting her finger at her. "Who gave you the right to tell the Dalish anything about ME?" she shouted. She met their blank stares with a fierce coldness.

"I—I did not say anything that isn't already known, Jayne," Leliana uttered nervously. "It was a gesture of trust to share a story with a fellow—"

"Trust? Did you consider any trust I placed in you?" She reeled around, taking in all their faces, a threatening gleam in her eyes. "Mine is not some entertaining story to tell by the fire," she growled. "The murder of my entire family is no fodder for drunken ballads. You," she turned again to Leliana, wrath rising like black bile within her, "are not allowed to even utter their names."

Leliana's brows furrowed, pain surfacing in her eyes.

"None of you are," she accused, scanning their circle. "None of you!" she cried, her voice breaking. She stumbled to the side and Alistair reached out to steady her. "Do not touch me!" she shouted, retreating. "None of you…can utter their names…" her voice faded, sorrowfully.

They remained immobile, unsure of how to proceed. Morrigan shut her book and sat up warily. and Wynne, stepped out of her tent in bewilderment to witness the commotion.

"Cousland," a voice behind her stated brazenly.

Zevran's accent made it sound like two distinct words. Collecting herself, she raised her head and glared at him stonily.

"What are you doing?"

"Uttering their name."

"How dare you—" she lunged heavily towards him, determined to knock him into the ground.

He sidestepped her with ease, positioning himself behind her. She twisted her torso and hurled a fist in his direction. He tilted his head to the left, barely missing the blow. He flashed a signal of caution to the others with one hand as he invited her forward with the other.

"Come on, Warden," he taunted her. "Come have it out. You and me."

She chased him as he scurried up the hill. Her thrumming heartbeat and breath roared in her ears. Her mouth contorted into a scowl. He mocked her, crouching leisurely at the top, waiting for her to reach him with a glint in his eyes.

"You go too far," she snarled as she approached him. "Just because you bedded me doesn't mean you have an advantage over me!"

"No, I have an advantage because I am a better duelist than you, Warden." He sprung up, rushing past her. His finger grazed her neck. "If that were a dagger, you'd be dead."

She touched her skin in dim surprise only to charge at him once more.

"You are formidable in the battlefield, you know. In that chaos you thrive. You hack through the air with that big, clunky sword of yours. I've seen you; I've even been on the receiving end of that sword! But… at close range, one-on-one, crazed as you are right now, my dear, you are at a distinct disadvantage. I, on the other hand, am in my element: we are alone, in relative darkness, there are no distractions…I can focus only on you. And right now, you are at _my_ mercy." He crossed his arms and flashed her a cocky grin.

"Stop flitting around and fight like a man," she demanded.

"Just because you bedded me doesn't mean I'll give you an advantage over me…" he replied sardonically.

He lunged and jabbed his finger below her left breast.

"And that's the heart. Got you again."

She glanced down in horror, as if there really were blood spurting from the touch. He stood irritatingly close. She acted as if she were revving up for a punch, but thrust her leg out instead, barely grazing his thigh. He stepped backwards and vanished behind her once again. A volley of pokes assailed her upper and lower back.

"Kidneys…perhaps a collapsed lung…" he whispered in her ear before she reeled around. "Sounds like one of Alistair's delicious recipes!"

She screamed frustratedly, swinging her fists blindly before her.

"That's right, Warden. Fight. Let it all out," he urged her, facing her as he retreated, beyond the range of her strikes.

She could no longer tell if she was angry or tired anymore. He leaned forward and gave her a light slap on the cheek.

"Don't let down your defenses."

"According to you, I've already been eviscerated." Her breathing had become labored and she rested her hand on her hip.

"No, no, that's only if I strike you here." He aimed for her torso.

As he bent forward, she raised her leg, aiming a side kick at him. The hit landed squarely on his leg. He hollered a string of profanities in Antivan, backing away and rubbing his knee.

"Try again," she dared, a savage grin on her lips. "If that had been my longsword, you would now be…maimed," she pointed out with satisfaction.

"Longsword? Maimed?" He squinted at her in confusion. "O-ho! Aren't you stealthy! No one will EVER suspect you have a massive longsword tucked away in your stockings… You are a nest of rabid nugs, Warden." He tapped at his head.

He circled her again, bidding his time. She breathed in slowly, acutely aware of his movements, revolving her body before he could disappear behind her. He surged forward again and thumped her on the head. She thrust her hands out, trying to seize his arms. She was not able to grasp them in time, but landed a thick pinch on his bicep.

"Ai-a!" he yelled, extricating himself. "That's dirty fighting!…Well done!"

Emboldened, she leapt at him. He managed to swerve out of her path, but lost his footing over the irregular ground and fell to the side. She took advantage of his fall to raise her foot in an attempt to pin down his chest. His eyes widened and he rolled out of her way just as her boot crashed over the ground where he'd been lying. She scurried off backwards, before he could react to her failed attack.

_I'm going to show you whether or not I can duel you, assassin._

She was entirely focused on him, his movements and hers, measuring her breathing.

_I am in full command of myself,_ she noticed. The anger had dissipated. All that remained was a peculiar focus and concentration. _You knew what to do,_ she realized with surprise.

Before she understood what was happening, he clenched both her wrists, clasping them tightly. With a swift push, he had her pinned between a tree and his own body.

"I win," he bragged provocatively.

She attempted to shake herself free, but his grasp was firm.

"Let's see you get out of this one." He squeezed tighter, as if daring her.

She relaxed for a moment and then pressed her wrist against his thumb, loosing it from his hold. With her arm freed, she forcefully steered her hand between their bodies, reaching for his groin.

He released her completely, tilting his hips backwards, out of her angry reach.

"Now that's a maneuver you'd feel triumphant over for one glorious minute until you realized the magnitude of your crime and were filled with regret!" he reprimanded her.

She faced him, rolling her shoulder, a smug look on her face.

"But with anyone else, go for it," he finally grinned.

Realization of how she had behaved before then overcame her. She stared at the ground, overwhelmed.

_Maker…What had happened?_

"Come," he urged her towards the path to the camp.

She hesitated, shaking her head.

"Maybe I should give everyone a wide berth after how I behaved."

"You said some harsh things down there. Nothing that can't be fixed, though." His arm encircled her waist and he pulled her to him. "People only do stupidly impulsive things when they are in love, fearful, or angry. Next time you are like this, don't hold it in…but also try not to destroy the camp…"

He touched his forehead to hers and held her contemplatively for a few moments.

_You brought me back to my senses,_ she gazed at him with amazement.

"So you offered yourself up as a sacrifice to my fury?"

"Tch!" He rested his chin over her head. "Hardly. You didn't land one punch on me. Although I'm starting to think you could probably kick the Archdemon to death," he winced.

She could hear the smile in his melodious voice. She lifted her head so that she was eye level with him and moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue, tilted her head forward, kissing him.

_You remind me I am more than my hatred._

He lowered his hands to the small of her back and pressed her hips against his. A sultry craving tingled throughout her body, but she sought to push herself away from him. He groaned faintly in protest, burying his face in her hair.

"This is more devastating than that kick to my knee."

"Someone could come looking for us."

"Then we'd better hurry, my luscious Warden…" His lips dissolved warmly on her neck, gently sucking her skin.

"Come to my tent later on," her voice wavered even as she stepped back.

"What happened to giving everyone a wide berth… It's a beautiful night, no?" he pleaded. "I'll keep you warm—" he began, just as she spun around.

"You have your orders," she spoke commandingly, but cast him a lighthearted glance.

He rubbed his face in defeat.

"Aah…That was some foreplay, Warden… but please tell me it won't be necessary to do to get you in the mood every time. I'm rather attached to my bits and pieces…quite literally."

He unwound his arm from around her waist and fell into step behind her as they reached the camp. The hushed conversation around the campfire ceased the moment she walked up to them. At the sight of her, Leliana rose as if to greet her. Taking in her puffy, red rimmed eyes, Jayne realized ashamedly that she had been crying.

"Jayne, I would never betray—"

She raised her hand, bidding her to stop.

"I am the one who owes you an explanation: I am sorry, Leliana. I had no right to behave that way, not with you. I have no excuse other than allowing my sorrow to get the best of me. Can you forgive me?" She contemplated all their faces. "I am so sorry."

Leliana reached for her hand, squeezing it tightly and nodding. She smiled timidly, blinking back fresh tears. Jayne embraced her, the same surge of emotion that had overcome Leliana affecting her, too.

"I do like me some girl-on-girl action," Oghren said dreamily.

Groans followed by some laughter erupted. Jayne squeezed Leliana's arm affectionately as they peered into each other's eyes warmly.

"There is still a pressing matter to be resolved," Alistair said.

She turned her head to him questioningly. He quickly raised his index finger and rested it on his nose. A small flurry of hands rose immediately until everyone except Morrigan, who'd turned back to her book, had a finger on their noses.

"Ahem, Morrigan. I believe you have to refill the water bucket," Alistair announced. She lazily lifted her finger to her nose. "Too late," he added.

She lowered the book to her knees and glanced around their circle.

"This is ridiculous." She glared at them with contempt as she stood up. "Fine. I'll get the water just to end this foolishness."

"She might poison it," Alistair whispered to them.

"We have all become inured to poison thanks to your cooking!" she shouted over her shoulder.

Jayne's eyes wandered to Zevran, sitting across from her, laughing as Oghren followed up with something she couldn't make out clearly, but that she was certain was wildly inappropriate.

_I'm not a vengeful being. There is a fine line between revenge and justice. I am sure I will cross it, especially when it comes to Rendon Howe…But I am not defined by my hate solely._

She contemplated the fire, the night finally tranquil. Farther away she could hear faint singing in Dalish. She sought out Zevran's face again. He lent his ears to the conversation taking place around them, undoubtedly amused, but his gaze rested upon her.

_Maker's breath, Zevran. I do love you,_ she admitted, not without a small degree of alarm.


	17. Chapter 17

She stood before Lenaya and Sarel, along with Alistair and Leliana that same evening. She decided there was still one piece of business to take care of before retreating for the night. She announced the decision to meet with them abruptly, asking Alistair and Leliana to accompany her. She hadn't failed to notice the exasperation in Zevran's face as they assembled to find Lenaya.

"The Dalish mustn't sense we have anything to hide, or that we are divided."

Now, facing the First and their _hahren_ , she wished to put any misconceptions to rest.

"You are wrong about me," she said calmly. "It is not as simple as you would have it. Don't doubt I feel hatred and seek revenge. My loss is fairly recent…I know my judgment may not be the clearest when I ponder any course of action regarding this matter. But understand that behind my anger is something I believe is just: that those who seek to destroy me do so in the name of ambition, in the name of greed. They seek power for personal gain, not to aid their people. I am a Cousland," she explained, knowing fully well it would mean little to them, "and I was raised to conduct myself as a Teyrna. My father instilled in me a desire to serve and protect Ferelden. And that, Lenaya, has been my compass. And even if I stray, I do not go far. My course is steady. Even now. The Blight is coming and I need the Dalish. We need each other, if we'll ever have a fighting chance."

Lenaya considered her words, her hands gripping her staff firmly.

"You may ask me anything you want, but all Leliana told you is truth. I have nothing to hide. I hope that in time, the story she told you will acquire a more satisfying ending, one in which the evil of men and Darkspawn has been vanquished. That would be a great story for the ages and I know Leliana would tell it well." She glimpsed at Leliana reassuringly. "My sincere wish is that the Dalish be remembered for the valorous part they played in it.."

Lenaya exchanged glances with Sarel.

"You speak of justice, but—"

"Justice and honesty go hand in hand," Jayne interrupted. "If you will not help me, I will seek the truth elsewhere. I need the Dalish, but not at any cost. I can wait no longer. Tomorrow we go into the ruins to settle this matter," she warned them.

Lenaya revealed her surprise.

"You would betray us?" she asked faintly.

"No," Jayne assured her. "But this must end, one way or another. I need a reply."

The woman lowered her head.

"I understand…I will try to give you an answer for what you seek by morning. I will inform the Keeper of your resolve," she agreed.

* * *

The three broke away at the camp upon their return. Leliana bid them goodnight and Alistair joined Oghren, Sten, and Bodhan. Morrigan appeared enthralled in her book, but hadn't moved away from the campfire to the privacy of her tent yet. Jayne caught a snippet of their conversation as she headed for her tent.

"That's easy! I miss having a _real_ bed," she overheard Alistair state.

"Me? A barrel of good ale…Maybe even mediocre ale," Oghren mused. "Pah, who am I kiddin': any ale right now would do."

"Being able to step outside and buy a fresh loaf of bread," Bodhan offered.

"This is pointless," Sten mumbled.

"Morrigan misses hairy Chasind men," Alistair goaded.

"Actually, I'm not even that picky," she responded in an indifferent tone. "Any experienced man would do, Alistair. Do you know any?"

Jayne grinned at the chorus of "Hoo!" both Oghren and Bodhan shouted spiritedly at that. She bent slightly to pass through the narrow entrance only to be greeted with an unexpected sight: half a dozen candle nubs, the size of votives, glowing throughout the tent on tin saucers. Two goblets and a pitcher sat on the ground next to her bedroll. Zevran watched her closely for a reaction. She smiled, her eyes taking in the tiny pinpoints of soft light.

"It's beautiful," she marveled. "But Oghren is going to go insane when he isn't able to find all the saucers tomorrow morning!"

"The candles won't burn for too long." He poured a sweetly fragrant red drink into one of the goblets before offering it to her. "The Dalish make their own wine, did you know that? They make it from the berries they collect in the forest and then press…" He sniffed it. "Probably tastes horrible," he smirked. "Brecilian Forest, pre-Blight…all the makings of an unforgettable vintage."

They clicked their goblets together and sipped at the same time.

"Gaaah…" he grimaced. "Evokes all the charms of this cursed place. I'm coating my daggers in this next time."

"It's not that bad." She smacked her lips against the acidic flavor.

"Please, Warden," he insisted, reaching for her goblet. "This is dreadful, even for a Fereldan. Either these Dalish have no taste buds or they mistranslated 'water to boil dirty socks in' for 'wine.'" As he whisked the goblet away, he leaned towards her, sniffing her hair. "You, on the other hand, are quite delicious. Shall we continue where we left off?" He fingered the clasp on her shirt and flicked it open, quickly directing his attention to the next one. She felt the cool air settle on her skin. He had unbuttoned her shirt completely and tugged at the binding wrap around her chest. She tilted away from him and began to blow out the candles, modestly concealing herself.

"What are you doing?" He cocked an eyebrow.

"Just…A little privacy." She tried to sound as nonchalant as she could. He stilled her hand.

"I want to look at you," He dragged himself up to her on the bedroll. He ran his fingertips over her clenched hands and tried to pull them away from her chest.

"I'd rather not," she insisted.

He withdrew his hands immediately. She didn't wish him to misunderstand; she just didn't want him to see… and compare her to all the stunning and voluptuous conquests he'd probably enjoyed so often before.

 _I barely filled out a formal gown back in the day, and now, with these ugly scars_ …

"Why not?" he puzzled.

"I have scars." She exhaled, staring down at the bedroll.

"I would imagine you do." He sat back on his heels. "You think it would bother me?"

She nodded vigorously.

"I have a few of my own," he continued, reaching for her hand and placing it beneath his shirt, over his stomach. "See?" He ran it over a raised and smooth line running sideways. "If you'd like, we can compare scars…I bet I have more…"

She smiled faintly, but did not move.

"Is there something else? Something you are worried about?"

She hesitated.

"You do know I grew up in a whorehouse, yes? I saw bodies in all stages of undress morning, afternoon, and evening. I have seen everything imaginable—"

"They are very small," She pointed at the wrap binding her breasts. He blinked a couple times and his expression softened. "They are scarred… and too small."

"There's an old Antivan saying…" He wore that ridiculously affected expression of gravitas he always pulled out anytime he dispensed his Antivan pearls of wisdom.

"Dear Maker! Must you? It's bad enough—"

"'It does not matter how large your slice of the cake is, but rather how sweet it tastes,'" he recited suggestively.

Jayne raised her hands to her face, mortified. He laughed heartily, planting a tender kiss on her head. He lowered his head and gave her another kiss, slowly, on her cheek. He grazed her nose with his and stopped before her mouth. "And you are the sweetest, my dear Warden." He bit her lower lip lightly, his hands reaching for hers, pulling them away from her face. She found herself staring again at his hands, so large over her own, but gentle as he caressed her—

 _The gloves!_ she remembered. _I need to give them to him!_

"Very well! This will require I employ my most seductive tactics. How well versed are you in poetry? Antivan poetry, specifically."

"I know a good poem when I hear it," she answered honestly, still clinging to her shirt.

"A-ha!" he scoffed. "Well, trust me then: you won't be hearing it now."

He reached to the side, grabbing the goblets of Dalish wine again.

"I am going to need all the aid I can get if we are really going to do this." He handed her a goblet and sat back. "It was recited to me, I recall, by a rather wealthy target of mine. Let's see…'The symphony I see in thee/ it whispers songs to me/ Songs of hot breath upon my neck/ songs of soft sighs by my head/ songs of nails upon my back/ songs of thee come to my bed.'"

Jayne made no attempt to conceal a grimace.

"Oh dear…"

"Oh, I know, I know!" he said, slightly indignant. "I couldn't believe that she thought this would actually convince me to spare her." He shook his head. "I had sex with her anyway… but that goes without saying. She still had to die. The poem was amusing at the time, however, and thus I've always remembered it."

Jayne's eyes widened.

"You _killed_ her anyway?"

He shrugged.

"Well, yes…but _after_ we made love. What do you think I am? Some kind of monster? It's not as if she didn't enjoy herself. Certainly there are much less pleasant ways to spend your last hours, no?"

 _"_ You are a saint amongst men, Zevran," she stated wryly, shaking her head.

He squinted at her and nodded.

"You know, I kept telling the other Crows that, and yet, they never felt the same way." He flashed another smile. "Here I thought you might be cheered up by some naughty poetry. What did you think?"

She pursed her lips, pensively.

"I think I prefer poetry in couplets or triplets. Rondelets and villanelles are more common in Fereldan poetry, but that could be attributed to Orlesian—"

"I agree, wholeheartedly, with whatever you said! May we now quickly proceed to the part of the evening where I remove your clothes? I don't think I can wait any longer."

She could sense her resolve waning at the urgency in his voice. She raised a placating finger at him. He uttered a strangled groan before collapsing backwards onto the blankets.

"I'm going to ask you a question. Answer truthfully, and I'll give you a reward…" Her eyes glinted. He lifted his head interestedly.

"What kind of reward?…"

"Close your eyes," she ordered.

"This suddenly took a turn for the better…" He shut his eyes tightly.

She threw one of the blankets over his head. She reached inside her pack for the hidden pair of gloves.

"Put your hands out and tell me what you feel."

He put his hands up, as if cupping the air before him.

"I fervently hope it's your breasts," he smirked.

"Can you correctly guess what this is?" She brushed the leather gloves delicately over his cheek. He startled, surprised. "Can you smell what it is made of?" she raised them to his nose. She laid the gloves in his hands and watched him grasp them, then smooth his fingers over the soft leather and over the embroidery. He pulled the improvised blindfold off and stared at the gloves, a mystified expression on his face.

"These are gloves." He continued to stare at them.

"They're for you," she explained, almost shyly.

"Gloves? You're giving me gloves? What for?" He raised his eyes at her, slightly taken aback.

"They're Dalish gloves. Like your mother's," she added quietly.

He stared down once more, turning them around in his hands slowly. His confusion eased.

"I…" he paused, pulling them over his hands. He extended his arms, admiring them. "Maker's breath…" he whispered. "You're right. It is like my mother's." He examined the needlework and wiggled his fingers. "The leather was less thick, and it had more embroidery…but these are very close. And quite handsome."

He beamed at her, amazed.

"You're welcome," she smiled back.

"Do I seem surprised? Perhaps I am."

The gold thread glinted slightly in the candlelight.

"Still, I appreciate the fact you even thought of me. No one has simply…given me a gift before. Thank you," he told her earnestly.

He continued to inspect them, leaning back into the pillow. She lay down beside him, observing him, wonder in his eyes. The dark swoops running down his his face reminded her of a bird's talon marks. She wondered if they meant anything. They appeared so different from the markings she saw on the Dalish— less florid, but fluid. His eyes seemed almost transparent in the candlelight. She enjoyed watching him with that expression: a rare and disconcerting sincerity she thought suited him just as much as the overconfident swaggers and smirks.

"These are very lovely. I hope you didn't go to too much trouble," he said.

"You are worth it," she grinned.

He finally drew his eyes away from the gloves and faced her.

"I don't know what to say."

She leaned over and pecked his cheek, drawing nearer to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"I'm very glad you like them…"

"That's an understatement," he murmured.

 _I can't take this._ She shut her eyes. _I'm going to give in. I am going to blurt out how I feel about him and make things awkward._

"…Because I had to bed the merchant for them," she added gravely.

He flashed her a roguish grin.

"Oh? And he only gave you a pair of gloves?" he interjected. "I would have at least thrown in a belt, too, for good measure!" he cried. "Come here." His arms enfolded her. "I need to teach you a few moves so you can get us more gear next time!" he teased.


	18. Chapter 18

"Zevran?" she called out in a half whisper, her arm and leg draped over his body.

He turned his head to her sleepily. It was still night outside.

"Hmm?"

"Why don't you ever call me by my name? I'd like it if you called me Jayne."

"I like calling you Warden. It's like a term of endearment for me now…"

"But it sounds so formal!" she lamented, rolling onto her back. He seized her arm and placed it back over his chest.

"I will call you something else, then."

"What?" she asked, suspiciously. "It'd better be something nice…"

"Sí, amora," he whispered, kissing her nose.

"I like the sound of that. What does it mean?"

"It means 'Warden,' in Antivan."

He laughed in earnest as she attempted to wrestle him.

"But what is all this chatting? You can't sleep?" he asked.

"Not really," she acknowledged.

He searched her face.

"The nightmares?"

"Not this time," she told him.

"Tell me." He propped the pillow up behind his head.

She shared her conversations with Zathrian, with Lanaya, her encounter with the werewolves in the forest, and her unsettling experience with the smaller white wolf. She remained in a preoccupied silence after finishing.

"Do you know what a 'blind bid' is?" he asked.

"No." She turned her large brown eyes to him.

"Anytime the Crows receive a contract for an assassination, two things can happen: either a Master is assigned to do the job or the assassins get to bid on it. Negotiations ensue and the bid is awarded once the Crows agree on a palatable split of the spoils. Most of the time bids are very straightforward: this group wants a member of that other group killed because he is encroaching on their territory. Another person wants to eliminate a rival because she is threatening someone else's power or influence. Whatever the story, the details are laid out very clearly: who and why. It is not our place to question motives, pass judgment, mediate…we carry out our missions and get paid…Still, it's more than a mere courtesy to share the details behind a contract."

"In a blind bid you aren't given any details?" she guessed.

"Exactly." He squeezed her shoulder. "In a blind bid you are told to carry out an assassination on someone to be encountered at a specific time and place and not much more is revealed. Blind bids cost more, but few assassins willingly agree to take them on."

She folded her hands over his chest and rested her chin on them, peering into his eyes.

"Why is that?" she wondered.

"Because those tend to be the most unpleasant," he explained. "See, anyone who gets involved in Antivan politics or economics should be smart enough to understand the risks. If you try to cheat a merchant prince, then don't expect to get a rap on the knuckles. If you are going to mess with fire, then realize you may get burned, no? It's a dangerous game to play, but in the end, like any game, it follows certain rules— it's nothing personal; it's just business, as usual." He punctuated his speech vividly with his hand. "But in blind bids there is the added element of the unexpected…of unpredictable and unpleasant contingencies."

"That bad?" Jayne's heart tightened.

"Oh, the worst," he sneered. "And it's not that we, assassins, have some misguided sense of justice— it's simply that the more you know, the better you can prepare yourself to complete your mission. It is disconcerting…and potentially very dangerous…to appear at a predetermined time and place only to discover that your mark is a five-year old child or that the elderly woman sitting across the table from you is weeping not only because she understands she is about to die, but because she realizes you were probably sent by the beloved son she had been expecting for the lavish dinner laid out before you," he said, disgusted. "Some of us like to draw the line somewhere," he muttered.

"Where do you draw yours?"

This was tricky territory.

He stretched.

"I don't make bids on contracts that target children. I just don't. Most of the other assassins won't either, but some do and it happens more often than you'd imagine…" his voice trailed off. Antiva sounded less fascinating and increasingly sinister to her. "But here is the point of all this: this mission you have undertaken sounds like a blind bid. You have been told to kill a target and are not being given any relevant specifics. In my experience, such bids almost always conceal some complicated entanglement that would absolutely destroy the person seeking to place the job, were the details to be disclosed. Zathrian is hiding something— and it is devastating, my dear Warden. Of that, you can be sure," he cautioned her.

She glanced down, her head and hands still perched on his well-defined chest, his skin warm and tawny. She knew he was right; those were her own suspicions. But something else nagged at her: that darker, violent side of his, the facet of his character she had difficulty reconciling to the man who laughed so easily, who could display so much concern and kindness.

"Why did you take the bid to target me?" she asked faintly.

He tensed beneath her. She forced herself to face him.

"Let me ask you something, since your answer would satisfy both your and my curiosity," he countered, seriously. "Why did you _spare_ me?"

They stared at each other, his silence expectant.

"Because…" she paused, gathering her thoughts, "because there was something about you at that moment," she ventured. She wasn't flattering him, or trying to be coy, and he, thankfully, didn't veer off into one of his flirtatious diversionary tactics. He observed her calmly, but inquisitively. "And I've tried to understand it ever since…Here you are…so very skilled; I've seen you…You move like a shadow…Look at all the times you have snuck into this tent without my noticing. What would have prevented you from tracking down our camp and simply slipping in one night and assassinating me?" He listened, his eyes blinking slowly, engrossed in her words. "Instead, you mounted this disastrous ambush— in open space, no less! Haven't you lectured me— as recently as tonight, even—on how fighting in an open battlefield is my biggest advantage, that I wouldn't be able to swing my longsword around in close quarters or that my heavy, broad strikes would be useless in a one-on-one duel against a trained assassin?"

A wan smile edged his lips.

"Zevran, the only conclusion I've come up with is that you must have known the attack was doomed. Why did you do it? On that day, when you were lying on the ground with my sword pointed over your chest, you appeared… almost relieved. It was so strange…and terribly sad. And I couldn't do it." She stared at him. "I guess that's where I draw my line."

He folded his arms behind his head, diverting his gaze from hers.

"Warden, you don't give yourself enough credit," he tsked her.

"I think I am right," she stated.

He glanced at her, an affectionate glint in his eyes.

"Ah, but you always think you are right…" he smiled.

"Don't do this."

His expression clouded again.

"There is a story I haven't told you," he began. "It's the story of the mission right before I came to Ferelden."

He appeared as if he were going to launch into yet another one of his wild, unruly adventures, except for the sorrow in his eyes.

"But…no, I…I would rather not," he informed her abruptly. "I shouldn't have said anything."

The frustration in his tone was evident, but it was not directed at her. As much as she wanted to know, as much as she wished he would confirm her suspicion, she noticed how unusually upset he'd become. And he'd always been so respectful of her boundaries, physical and emotional, she remembered. She sank back into the bedroll and hugged her arm across him as before, nestling her head lightly on his shoulder.

"It's all right," she reassured him. "I understand."

He exhaled.

"Thank you." He adjusted his arm around her. "Perhaps another day, hm?" he promised.

"I need to meet Witherfang," she changed the topic. "I can't rely on Zathrian. I have to get the story elsewhere… from the werewolves."

"Will you let me go with you next time?" he asked, rubbing his hand over her back.

"But the plague—"

"If I can't go, then Alistair can't go," he said simply.

She sat up slightly.

"What do you mean by that? I thought we had established that Alistair and I—"

"I can take care of myself quite well. I don't need to be fussed over. If you are going to protect anyone, then you should protect Alistair: after all, he is to be king, no?"

She frowned. He did have a point. Alistair shouldn't be exposed to danger unnecessarily.

_And he would be so very reasonable if I were to tell him so…_

"I'll think about it," she humored him.

"Ha!" he interjected. "You will do exactly as you please. I know better," he chuckled.

She did not have a response; he was right about that, too.

"Know this, then: I don't take my command lightly. I know each of my decisions has profound repercussions. I am fighting for Ferelden, yes, but don't think for a minute that I would place any of you in any unnecessary danger. Don't think that I don't seek to protect my-"

He interrupted her with a passionate kiss.

"Mmm…I do like it when you go all heroic on me," he murmured against her lips.

"I'm being honest—" she insisted.

"You don't know how to be otherwise, Warden; that is exactly what I … like… best about you."


	19. Chapter 19

Jayne awoke in a stupor, with the clanging of metal pans and loud voices conversing outside. She found herself tangled beneath the blankets with Zevran, she realized with satisfaction— her arm sprawled over his chest, his arm ensconced beneath her shoulder, her leg entwined between his. He slept soundly, his arm flung up, she noticed amusedly. He hadn't managed to slip away after all, she congratulated herself.

Alistair's voice suddenly calling for her outside startled her from her thoughts.

"Jayne! Jayne! Are you awake?"

Zevran stirred and his eyes shot open, blinking tiredly against the brightness permeating the tent.

"Yes! I am up," she responded loudly. Zevran sat up, reaching for his discarded clothes along the bedroll.

"We need to go," Alistair continued.

"Is everyone else ready?"

When was the last time she had slept in like that?

Alistair did not respond, but she could see his outline outside the tent wall, along with Rune's eagerly sniffing snout against the canvas. Zevran had managed to slip on his breeches and was buttoning them up.

"Alistair?"

"We have a problem," he finally revealed.

Jayne frowned. Zevran labored over turning out his shirt.

"What is wrong?"

She could hear the hesitation in his voice.

"I am afraid I have bad news."

 _Maker's beard! What is it now? Get on with it, Alistair!_ She tensed, bracing herself for the next words.

"Zevran has gone missing."

At this, Zevran rolled his eyes.

"No one has seen him since last night. His bedroll is all made up." He lowered his voice significantly. "I don't know, Jayne, but I suspect something isn't quite right. No one wants to talk about it."

She rubbed her forehead.

"I'll be right out," she assured him.

They waited quietly until he was far enough from earshot. Zevran sighed.

"You realize they all know at this point," he murmured. "I'm sorry…I had every intention of leaving your tent before daybreak."

"I told you it doesn't bother me," she replied.

"I couldn't leave the bedroll without incurring the wrath of the frenzied octopus who held me in her grasp while she slept," he joked.

Jayne furrowed her brow as she picked through her pack for a set of clean clothes.

"You can't call me by name, but you have no problem comparing me to a tentacled sea creature!" she protested crossly.

"A very adorable octopus, I might add," he bent down to kiss her softly on the cheek. "I was a most willing captive." He handed her the boots she had tossed aside the previous night. "I think I can sneak out the back of the tent." He tentatively lifted the bottom edge.

"Zevran," she said, turning to face him, "I know you mentioned you'd prefer we be discrete—"

"It's not that I 'prefer' it, it's just that people might be resentful that—"

"I'm not going to lie to them. I think that's worse— the lie," she told him plainly, brushing out her hair. "We have nothing to be ashamed of."

He stared at her in silence, a slightly surprised expression gradually turning into a subtle grin as she went about readying herself. He glanced down at the gloves, resting in his lap, as she fastened off a simple braid.

"So you will not protect my honor, hmm?"

"Absolutely not," she smirked, hoisting up her thick stockings. "In fact, I am adding how I seduced the great Zevran to my list of heroic accomplishments."

"Oh? You were doing the seducing? How did you ever?" he purred, tugging lightly on her braid.

"Pssh!" she dismissed him with a smug sideways glance. "I am magic, don't you know? A strikingly handsome elf told me that once, during a game of Wicked Grace."

"Yes, you certainly did cast some kind of spell…Although I believe that elf's intentions towards you were lurid from the start," he remarked seductively. She dropped the blanket as she finished securing her binding wrap tightly around her chest. "Allow me to assist you," he offered impishly, reaching for the end of the wrap. She slapped his hand away lightly.

"We're in enough trouble as it is…"

He leaned back and clapped the gloves together pensively.

"That reminds me of when I was an assassin in training…" he sniggered, his eyes focusing on a distant scene unfolding in his memory. "We were paid almost nothing, so the easiest way to earn some coin was by sitting on the rooftops at the center of town at dawn, when people would begin to depart from the brothels— or the residences of absent husbands or wives— attempting to do so unseen. I'd sit up at the top, along with one or two of my partners in crime. As soon as we'd spot worthwhile victims, we'd make sure they knew we had caught them doing their 'walks of shame'…Of course, we'd follow up afterwards with a courteous visit to collect payment for our silence. One particular gentleman, a wealthy Antivan shipbuilder, Verro Sarrastina, was an easy target. He certainly made his ruinous way through a staggering number of beds in Antiva City…We did respect him for that much." Zevran rubbed his chin amusedly. "Anytime he stepped out into the street, he'd simply wave to us and shout, 'Come by the house tomorrow!'"

"My sister-in-law always made Antiva sound so exciting and picturesque. Ever since I've met you, Antiva only becomes more and more terrifying," she informed him, tucking in her shirt.

"I suppose it can be, depending on who you are…but your sister-in-law was right: if you can bear the frequent rain and the stench of fish either cooking or rotting, Antiva is quite stunning, you know. I'll admit Antiva City can be a bit too much with all the golden statues and colored tile on the streets— it's like a newly minted merchant prince's boudoir…a gaudy display of wealth over taste. Rialto, though…Ah… Rialto is very charming. Antiva City was more like it before it was razed to the ground during one of the Blights. Flowers growing everywhere, placed before each window. And the canals…You would love the canals; in the afternoon the sun hits the water in a way that makes the surface shimmer like silver.

"It does sound lovely," she mused. "Would you be my guide?" she asked him playfully as he helped her to her feet.

"Your  _personal_  guide, at your beck and call. It would be my pleasure," he bowed gallantly, his fist clenched over his heart. "Look to your left, to enjoy a beautiful historic bridge," he acted out, waving his hands before them. "Now kindly look to your right, to duck the incoming dagger…" he grinned. "An unforgettable trip. Once we depart, you will miss the breathtaking sights, the exotic foods, and perhaps, your pancreas."

His eyes sparkled and they laughed together. A shadow quickly darkened her thoughts, freezing her smile in place. Had she planned anything in her life beyond the Blight? How could she dare to hope for such a thing?

She emerged from the tent into an awkwardly quiet camp.

"Good morning," she uttered to all.

"I'll say!" Oghren cackled loudly before Leliana's fist slammed into his shoulder.

She stubbornly held the tent flap open, awaiting Zevran until he grudgingly ventured outside, at last. Oghren smirked briefly, after establishing some distance between himself and an annoyed Leliana. Despite the expectant silence and brazen stares upon them, she pulled on her bracers and began to give them their orders, discouraging any further dwelling on the matter.

"Come with me," she beckoned Alistair, whose eyes were as wide as Oghren's missing tin saucers. "We have some pending business before we depart. Morrigan, Zevran, and Oghren—prepare your canteens, don your armor, and bring your weapons— you are coming with us to the ruins. Sten and Leliana, we need you to help the Dalish with their patrols. Bodhan and Sandal— the usual, please: tidy up, stock up on firewood for later… and keep Rune close by. Wynne, I have a request—" she turned to the older woman, but she had already disappeared into her tent.


	20. Chapter 20

"Care to share anything?" Alistair hinted as they approached the aravels. "Anything on your mind?" he insisted. "Something you'd like to tell me?" he growled.

She moved forward, ignoring him.

"So yesterday, while we were all chatting, Oghren kept talking about the joys of thrusting big pikes into verdant fields while giggling at Zevran in a most disturbing way. I suspect he was talking about something other than an actual pike and field. Would you kindly weigh in?"

She grimaced.

"Alistair, I am not going to lie to you."

"So it  _wasn't_ just a big pike after all!" he cried with false surprise.

"Zevran and I…" she stopped, searching for the right words.

"Zevran and you what?" he asked, a hint of curiosity and concern in his tone. She loved him like her own skin and bone, but he could be so very thickheaded.

"You see, Alistair, when two lampposts meet and like each other—"

"Now, was that really necessary?" he sulked.

"I don't know what we are…but whatever it is, we are."

Alistair took her words in silently.

"He makes me happy, he makes me laugh," she attempted to explain.

"Of course he does: he's a buffoon."

"I think we are all entitled to a little bit of happiness, after all we have been through…and everything that awaits us," she said somberly.

"You could at least have confided in me so that I wasn't standing there like a fool, my jaw to the ground, after unsuccessfully attempting to assemble a search party, as everyone else seemed to be in the know!" he accused heatedly.

"I wasn't aware that the Grey Wardens had a protocol for that! Perhaps the Blight can wait while I fill out the appropriate paperwork—oh, and yes— hand it in to myself, since— surprise!— we are the only two Grey Wardens left," Jayne gestured wildly around her.

"It's not a Grey Warden rule," he replied sullenly. "I thought you trusted me. I thought we were friends."

She might as well have been punched in the gut.

"Alistair," she spoke more docilely. "I told no one. I may have shared some of my feelings for him with Leliana, but understand there was no intent to hide…Look, if anything…I don't quite understand what Zevran and I have," she struggled with the words. Alistair stared at her, his arms crossed, but at least he was listening. "But it is important to me. I…I need this," she asserted. "Don't think for a moment I do not understand the scope and gravity of our mission…that I don't ponder its outcome…But if that is all I do until then, I might crack. Remember it was you," she said, stepping forward and resting her hand firmly on his arm, "who told me to hang on to the things that keep us grounded, that keep us whole. He helps me with that. He keeps me…from losing myself inside my head. He forces me to remain present, in the moment, with him, " she told him quietly. "I am sorry. I seem to be blundering left and right with the very ones who keep me afloat. I don't think I can bear it if you begrudge me," she pleaded truthfully, her eyes downcast.

His face softened.

"I hope he is treating you like the lady you are," he offered kindly.

"Oh, thank the Maker he isn't!" she grinned mischievously.

Alistair's eyes widened again and his hands flew up to his ears.

"La la la la! I cannot hear you!" he sang frantically.

She laughed. He chuckled at last. He took her hand gingerly and held it to his chest.

"Jayne, I trust you with my life, and I know you do the same. The only times we have fought were because we couldn't agree on how to proceed, but even in those times, we argued over what we believed was in the other's best interest, always considering each other's well being and our duty. I am not going to nag you to be careful, or bother you with my worries about his getting so close to you…It would be disrespectful. So I will say this to you instead: if he brings you joy, who am I to judge? But if he ever becomes a source of sorrow, you have my ears and my shoulder, too."

Jayne smiled, touched.

"And my boot on his rump, if necessary," he added.

"He might actually enjoy that bit," she snickered.

"Yes… I realized that just as I said it. I cannot  _believe_  all that outrageous nonsense he says actually  _works_!" He shook his head, but his gaze was warm.

"Thank you, my friend." She took his arm as they walked together.


	21. Chapter 21

"What in the Void was that all about?" Jayne hissed under her breath angrily.

"You pushed him and now he is pushing back. That simple," Alistair commented as they rushed back to the others.

"I don't care what he says, we are going into those ruins right now." She adjusted her sheath's strap over her torso.

Lanaya had arranged a meeting for them with Zathrian. The austere Keeper, who appeared decidedly worse for the wear since they'd arrived, listened to them share their concerns. But upon being asked directly to address the curse, he'd turned to Jayne.

"Lanaya and I spoke for a long time yesterday," he told her, settling on the window seat across from her. "You have incited her to ask many questions." His eyes narrowed slightly, but he smiled at her.

"She is within her rights to do so, isn't she?" she asked, summoning all the composure she could muster to keep herself from pointing an accusatory finger at the man.

"That she is," he agreed. "Lanaya told me much about you," he resumed. "And I believe you and I are not too different, Jayne."

"How so?" She dashed a curious glance at Alistair.

"You and I understand great loss," he stated.

She leaned forward, clasping her hands.

"Yes, I suppose I am an accidental Grey Warden because of it." She hadn't gone there to rehash her past for his curiosity.

"Tell me something, and answer me honestly," he requested. "When you find the ones who murdered your family, what will you do?"

Jayne clenched her jaw tightly. Alistair shot her a warning look. Was he seeking a character flaw? An excuse to proclaim Dalish moral superiority over human pettiness?

"I will seek justice," she replied.

"Ah. Justice." He nodded cryptically. "What does that mean to you?"

"The definition, as I understand it, or what it means to me personally?"

His were the darkest eyes she had ever seen on an elf.

_Elven eyes should be captivating, radiant and limpid, but Zathrian's eyes gleam blackly._

"There is no difference," he replied.

"I know that I will seek out those who betrayed my family, yes."

" That is a very diplomatic reply," he stated with a trite smile. "But…once you find them?"

"I do not think there will be much of a conversation," she declared. "There is no reasonable or plausible explanation that could possibly justify their actions. They are dangerous and I intend to stop them."

"Stop them…" he pondered.

"Yes." She shifted uncomfortably under her armor. "It means I will kill them. I do not know of any other way to stop them." She peeked apologetically at Alistair. It was the truth.

"Death as a punishment?"

"Of course," she answered curtly.  _What is the point of this?_

 _Sometimes a man's questions reveal more about him than any answers would,_ she recalled her father telling her. She lowered her eyes sadly.

"Would this bring you peace?" he wondered, more to himself, it appeared.

"I don't know," she offered sincerely. "But it would end their machinations to hoard power. It would safeguard others from comparable suffering," she concluded. "That would provide me some solace."

"For a while," his voice trailed off.

"Pardon?" she puzzled.

"Grief is a persistent companion," Zathrian continued. "It corrodes all memories, until every single one is marred," he told her as her chest tightened. "It interposes itself between yourself and every sweet word, every cherished moment." She'd had the same thought the previous night, she realized ominously. "I ask you another question, then: how do you quell grief?"

She inhaled deeply, his question resonating in her mind.

"I don't know," she repeated.

Zathrian nodded.

"Yes, I expected as much." He rose and moved towards the doorway. "You don't know because there is no peace…I will tell you this much: the werewolves are the legacy of grief. They have brought this upon themselves. Remember this, when you enter the ruins. I do not doubt they suffer, but you will understand that they deserve their suffering. The greatest kindness you could do, would be to end their existence, their half lives, neither human nor beast."

_A blind bid conceals devastating truths._

"I do know one thing about my grief," she raised her eyes to him. He paused, turning away from the door, his hand resting on the knob. "If it is not released, it poisons." She remembered lashing out in anger against Leliana. "And I am still learning…with all this grief…that I need to count on those I care about…and who care for me… to help see me through it. My longing cannot change or bring anyone back," she felt her lip quiver, "but nor does my hatred. I may always have my grief, but I hope I can overcome my hatred. Nothing lasting can be built on such a brittle foundation," she added.

"You are right," he smiled sadly. "You will always have your grief. It will stand by you loyally, long after everything else has passed."

She startled as he pushed the door open, light piercing the dimness.

"Go, Grey Wardens. See for yourselves. You will know in your hearts," he nodded. "You will understand, Jayne."

Jayne shook her head angrily recalling his words.

"Was he trying to unsettle me?"

They emerged into camp, where they verified their armor and equipment before their excursion into the forest.

"Where is Wynne? I need to check in with her before we go." She glanced around the camp and caught sight of her, just as she exited her tent. "Head down to the entrance. I'll meet you down there in a little bit," she told Alistair.

Wynne noticed her approach, but turned her face away, pretending to fuss with a satchel she was carrying.

"Wynne!" Jayne halted before the slender, silver haired mage. "Off to the sick ward?"

"I am."

"I don't know if it'll make a difference or not, but keep a close eye on those afflicted by the plague today. Let me know if they respond in an unexpected way—"

"Very well," Wynne nodded, still avoiding her eyes.

"…Because we are going to be tampering with the…" Wynne's eyes remained downcast and focused. "It might trigger something with the curse, perhaps…" she hesitated. "Wynne, what is wrong?"

Wynne nodded towards Zevran, sauntering down the trail with the others.

"You are quite taken with each other, aren't you?"

Jayne focused on the thick leather buckle crossing his back as it disappeared around the bend.

"You know about me and Zevran." She said it more as a check for herself. She hadn't anticipated how to have these conversations.

"I almost wish I didn't," she stated morosely. "Half of us aren't getting any sleep the way you two carry on all night."

A flush of embarrassment prickled her face.

"We'll try to keep it down next time," she offered, flustered.

"That's…um..kind of you, I suppose…" she replied awkwardly. "Well…Anyway. I've noticed your blossoming relationship and I wanted to ask you where you thought it was going? It seems he only ever has one thing on his mind," she said coolly. Jayne crossed her arms. "I question the wisdom of a Grey Warden in being involved in such an affair."

The lingering aggravation from her encounter with Zathrian threatened to spill over, but she took a deep breath instead.

"Zevran is special to me…and I enjoy his company."

"Which is why I worry." Wynne tilted her head with consternation. "You are a Grey Warden. You have responsibilities and I fear you will neglect them."

"Being a Grey Warden is not an easy task," she acknowledged. "But I am also more than a Grey Warden. I have my own mind…and emotions."

"But you are a Grey Warden," Wynne insisted. "The title is not a coat that you can cast aside at the end of the day. It should inform your every action, for every decision." Wynne shook her head. "The way you are acting now…it is not fitting of a Grey Warden."

Wynne's words stung her deeply. She had always held the mage in high esteem, finding a warm solace in her benevolent, calm manner. She fought against the urge to shape all sort of angry words in protest to her accusations.

"I disagree, Wynne. I can be a Grey Warden, stay true to my mission, and be with Zevran," she replied.

Wynne examined her doubtfully.

"If you insist. I have given my advice. Do with it what you will." She clutched the satchel and stepped past her.

 _Well, that is one way I can strive to feel youthful! Apparently I am not beyond a good talking down to from my elders!_  Jayne thought with irritation.  _There are just a few too many elders here today assuming they know me better than I know myself._

She marched herself down the path, and as indifferently as she attempted to carry herself, she couldn't hold back the tears that rolled down her face.

 _Why is this upsetting me so much?_   _She is not Mum,_ she thought, with exasperation.  _No, the conversation with Mum… would be quite different._ She wiped her nose with her sleeve.  _Not only am I in love with an elf, he is an Antivan Crow assassin, to top things off._ She snorted derisively, imagining her father's reaction. Her father had been consistently fair, she found; Dalish clans had always been granted safe passage through Highever.  _Yet_ ,  _I am sure there would be a problem with a Cousland heir courting an elf,_ she thought uncomfortably,  _if their initial reaction towards Fergus' infatuation with Oriana, whose foreign origins had at first seemed unsurmountable to my parents, had been any indication._  She glanced back.  _Wynne, you, of all people, should know how terrible it is to be judged by others based solely on shallow assumptions. I wonder if we would have had this conversation if Alistair had been the one emerging from my tent. Thank you for reminding me of deep-rooted prejudices afflicting Ferelden._

At the camp's entrance, the forest stretched out before them, foreboding and glum. She met the others after wiping away the wetness over her cheeks. She glanced at Zevran, who narrowed his eyes curiously, upon examining her. She shook her head briefly, dismissing his concern.

"You either been drinkin' or cryin'," Oghren remarked. She flared her nostrils, which she knew were probably a ruddy shade of red.

"Let's go."

"Is anything the matter, Jayne?" Alistair wondered. Morrigan looked on interestedly.

"You'd tell me if it was drinkin', wouldn't you?" Oghren raised his head up to her as they made their way farther from the camp.

"She's upset over that sad breakfast you tossed together," Zevran mumbled. "Who eats fermented beans for breakfast before engaging in battle, I ask?"

"Heh. They fermented on their own. But the slime made them good and saucy."

"Ooh, I think I might be ill," Alistair groaned.

"I am sure the ruins will have a functional outhouse," Morrigan grinned snidely.

"Tell me your stomach isn't churning just a little bit since this morning!" Alistair complained.

"I did not have any of the beans," Morrigan replied smugly.

"Right…I forgot your diet consists of sucking the marrow of the innocent," he grumbled.

"I had a time gettin' the food ready this morning. Someone stole all my saucers. I found 'em just before we left…candle wax all over 'em. It's gonna be like shuckin' nug turds off—"

"Why bother? It might add flavor, along with the nose muck and beard hairs, don't you think, Alistair?" Morrigan was obviously relishing his nauseated face.

"Next time, someone else can cook breakfast," Oghren muttered.

"I'll gladly take over," Alistair stated.

"Guess what'll be for breakfast then!" Zevran exclaimed.

"STEW!" Morrigan, Zevran, and Oghren shouted in unison, startling a small flock of birds nearby.

"I don't only cook 'stew,'" Alistair explained disconcertedly. "I cook… 'stews.' Ferelden stew and Chantry stew," he clarified.

"Ah, yes… Chantry stew…isn't that Leliana's dirty bath water?" Zevran ribbed him.

Oghren face scrunched up with lusty laughter.

"You're alright, you knife-eared pipe cleaner," he chortled.

Zevran turned to her discretely and winked. She blinked back at him slowly, grateful for the welcome distraction.


	22. Chapter 22

Zevran crouched and lithely shifted his weight over to his left leg so that he could lean over the row of cracked marble slabs lining the desolate hall before them. He tapped his fingers firmly over the surface, listening intently. The only other sound in the room was from Alistair’s stomach, roiling angrily.

 

“Trap ahead,” he concluded. 

 

Their frustrated groans echoed in the dank and musty chamber. Motes of dust floated, suspended in the scattered rays of light that penetrated through various cracks. Thick, rope-like tree roots forced their paths down past the cavernous ceiling. 

 

Earlier in the day Morrigan had successfully disrupted the spells that bound the fog in place. Once the worst of the mist dissipated, they found themselves before a pathway lined with rows of stark towering columns. Overgrown and unruly vegetation surrounded them, engulfing the serpentine trail leading to a greater domed structure ahead. As they wandered farther, a far more bellicose Swiftrunner, along with four of his ilk, ominously surrounded them.

 

 

“The forest has not been vigilant enough…Still you come!” he rasped angrily, rising intimidatingly before her. “You are stronger than we could have anticipated. The Dalish chose well. But you do not belong here, outsider. Leave this place!” he barked, his sharp teeth glistening.

 

“I am not leaving,” Jayne asserted. “I need answers and I am done delivering messages between you and Zathrian.”

 

 

“You came even though we warned you not to. You are as treacherous as the Dalish. We will not allow harm to come to Witherfang!”

 

“You consciously chose to attack the Dalish first. I want to know why!”

 

“They deserved no less!” he snarled. A gurgling grunt emerged from his throat. “You are an intruder in our home! You come to kill, as all your kind do! We have learned this lesson well. Here Witherfang protects us. Here we learn our names and are beloved! We will defend Witherfang and this place with our lives!” He stopped before her, and with a deep howl, summoned his brethren to attack.

 

She and Alistair stepped forward, Oghren positioned himself protectively before Morrigan, while Zevran deftly unsheathed his daggers, ready to spring into combat. Swiftrunner lunged, raking his claws at her face. A burst of fire shot out of Morrigan’s outstretched palms, burning Swiftrunner and two other werewolves in front of them. The stench of singed fur filled her nostrils as high pitched yelps pierced their ears. The sound disturbed her; it reminded her too much of Rune’s own yelps of pain. Alistair dragged down one of the disoriented werewolves, his fur still smoldering, and struck his sword in the creature’s chest. Oghren bludgeoned the leg of another werewolf, the bone splintering with a hollow crack. To her left, Zevran plunged both his daggers into another werewolf’s neck and chest. The beast tumbled to its knees, clutching at its throat. Pulling the daggers out simultaneously, he whirled himself around, swiftly impaling the bloodstained blades into the back of the last werewolf, who had struck Oghren to the ground in a frenzied attempt to reach Morrigan. Jayne swung her sword and slashed into Swiftrunner’s arm. He yowled, thrusting his muzzle towards the sky and clutching the bleeding gash. He scurried backwards, away from her. 

 

She bridged the small distance between them, raising her sword into a menacing short guard, grasping her pommel with one hand and steadying the base of the blade with the other, ready to demand for his surrender when something violently rammed into her, knocking her to the ground. Her shoulder crashed forcefully into the sandy path. Raising her head, she realized had been thwarted by a fiercely growling white wolf who positioned itself protectively between them.

 

She stared into the animal’s light grey eyes as it glowered at her defiantly.

 

_Witherfang,_ she instinctively knew. 

 

The wolf emitted a bloodcurdling howl. Swiftrunner retreated promptly, followed by the white wolf.

 

Jayne glimpsed behind her to see the bodies of the fallen werewolves strewn around them.

 

“Follow them!” 

 

She charged up the path after the wolf. Their armor and weapons clanged as they ran in close pursuit. Three werewolves farther ahead guarded the entrance. Jayne scowled as she approached them rapidly in a long guard position, her blade positioned to lance anything that dared lunge at her.

 

“We are invaded! Intruders have deceived their way into the forest’s heart! Fall back to the ruins! Protect the Lady!” she heard one of them bellow.

 

_The Lady?_

 

Their forms vanished down a dim entryway. She dropped the tip of her sword, letting it fall into the dirt before her.

 

Alistair stood beside her, a spray of blood glistening over his chest plate. She checked on the others: Morrigan dabbed at a thin scratch on her collarbone and Oghren’s beard was powdered with ashy dirt from his fall. Her pauldron was visibly dented where she had fallen.

 

“I have to say, hospitality customs at the Brecilian Forest leave much to be desired,” Zevran scoffed. 

 

“These are ancient Elven ruins,” Morrigan marveled, brushing her fingers over the carved stone walls at the entrance. “It is teeming with power within…old magic.”

 

As they entered the ruins, musty darkness enveloped them and a damp, unpleasant chill settled over their skin. 

 

Zevran painstakingly examined each passageway for hidden trap mechanisms. For the good part of an hour he had led them past crude pressure plate trap triggers. One hallway had been completely impassible, large rusted leg traps littering the ground.

 

"This one appears clear," he announced at last, to their relief, giving the large doorway a final glance.

 

"Are you sure?' Alistair squinted suspiciously.

 

"Absolutely!" he declared grandly, seizing Jayne's wrist and pulling her back from the entrance. "Alistair, why don't you go first?"

 

Alistair smirked, shaking his head.

 

They descended a wide uneven staircase down into a sprawling atrium, heavy wooden doors lining the walls along unlit passageways littered with rubble and debris. Water trickled down the side of one of the walls, droplets of water plinking into a puddle nearby.

 

“Which way?” Jayne whispered, considering the doors cautiously. They searched the ground for tracks. While they examined the floor, one of the doors ahead of them slammed open and three werewolves emerged from it, seeking them out in the shadow. Alistair fell into position beside her and together they charged the creatures.

 

Once they had swiftly dispatched the first wave of werewolves, they’d discovered the door the beasts had emerged from had been sealed off. She, Alistair, and Oghren had thrust their shoulders into the solid door in an effort to knock it down as Zevran watched on skeptically. It did not budge. Morrigan attempted burning and then hurtling bolts at it, but except for scorch marks on the surface, the door remained secure.

 

“That did almost nothing,” Alistair stated bewilderedly.

 

“Can we unlock or unhinge it?” Jayne wondered.

 

“That is one of my specialties.” Zevran stepped forward, his hand briefly squeezing her waist as he brushed past her.

 

“Well?” Alistair finally asked, as he watched him run his fingers nimbly over the surface and along the frame. Zevran raised his leg, and tentatively kicked his heel against it. The door did not even rattle.

 

“It’s no good. This is a door to keep whatever is on this side out. The hinges, lock, knob…everything is on the other side- and besides being several layers thick, it is probably blocked with a solid cross beam.”

 

“Door’s too heavy,” Oghren complained, splaying his stubby fingers over the rough wood.

 

“I just said that.” Zevran arched an eyebrow at the dwarf.

 

“Heh! Guess now I’m a specialist too.”

 

“Oh, you are definitely special. I’ll give you that,” he smirked.

 

“There is no saying how far these ruins go or whether their paths converge further on,” Morrigan advised them.

 

“Do you sense anything more specific, anything that could guide us in selecting another entryway?” Jayne turned around at the center of the atrium, examining the various diverging paths and doors. 

 

“I can sense that there is magic, but nothing more specific.”

 

“Let’s take this passageway, then,” Jayne pointed at a dark, but unimpeded hall. 

 

“I don’t know…I don’t like the looks of that. I think the stairwell down this one might be better,” Alistair suggested.

 

“I prefer the passageway,” Jayne insisted, making note of the dilapidated steps covered in moss.

 

“Let’s decide this the usual way, then.” Alistair made a fist. “Coin, beggar, satchel.” At the silent count of three, Jayne tossed out a fist and Alistair tossed out two fingers. “Beggar takes coin!” he grinned, pleased. 

 

Morrigan observed them disapprovingly.

 

“Anyone else here concerned that crucial decisions are being settled over a children’s game?”

 

“You have no idea how often we do that,” Alistair grinned cheekily. 

 

“I thought you were raised by a military strategist and tactician,” Morrigan scolded Jayne.

 

“Apparently the subtleties of coin, beggar, satchel eluded him,” she lamented, heading towards the stairwell. 

 

“I, on the other hand,” Alistair began pompously, “ could be king based solely on my victories playing—“

 

“Just hush, Alistair,” Morrigan grumbled, following Jayne.


	23. Chapter 23

It had to be late afternoon, Jayne guessed. They had traveled farther and farther below the ruins in a monotonous pattern of descent. They defended themselves against predatory giant spiders and battled skeletal warriors, bound to corrupted and desecrated burial sites and dilapidated sarcophagi, but no werewolves. Although the battles themselves had not been difficult, she had grown fatigued and more and more disoriented. Each room, each passageway resembled the last, varying only in the degree of ruin and decay present. Morrigan enchanted their torches with a faint light that would not consume itself so that they could see in the blackness. The doorways appeared endless, leading them away from the surface in labyrinthine twists. It wasn't only wearing on her, either. She could see the frustration and exhaustion in all their faces. At one point, as they inspected yet another time-ravaged room, Alistair huddled over one of the corners and began to retch.

"With compliments to the chef." Zevran shook his head at Oghren.

"I'm alright," Alistair offered unconvincingly.

Jayne leaned over him, patting his back. The stench of bile mixed with partially digested beans hit her potently. She gently led him away from the offensive odor. Even in the slight glow of Morrigan's ghostly lights she could see his face appeared wan and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. She sat him down on a large stone, remains of a fallen statue.

"Is it just the beans or something else?" she asked him, concerned.

"I'm betting my gold on the beans," Zevran offered.

"They weren't that bad," Oghren mumbled guiltily. "I ate them and I'm fine."

Morrigan examined him skeptically.

" 'Fine' is a relative term," she declared.

"You know, I think the fact they call your people "children of the stone" has something to do with Dwarven cuisine," Zevran continued.

Alistair leaned to the other side of the statue and began to vomit again. Jayne took her handkerchief and moistened it with her canteen water. When Alistair turned back, she dabbed it on his face.

"Can we stop talking about food?" he pleaded, heaving slightly.

_Maker, what have we gotten ourselves into? We're in some subterranean hallway surrounded by hostiles and the future king of Ferelden is helpless, sick as a Mabari. This is a disaster. We were probably outnumbered to begin with and now we have to close ranks to defend a fallen ally. I do not like fighting defensively under such circumstances. Too much at stake._

"We are going to backtrack and get you to safety," she reassured Alistair.

"Backtracking would imply we knew where we headed from," Morrigan pointed out.

Jayne cast a look of desperation at Oghren. If anyone knew how to navigate convoluted underground passages, it would have to be the dwarf.

"Maybe I could get us back," Oghren suggested hesitatingly.

Alistair seized his canteen with a trembling hand and took a small sip.

"Or you could give me a minute," he said shakily. "Maybe I'll feel better in a bit."

Morrigan handed her staff to Jayne and leaned down to face him. Placing her hand over his forehead, she peered into his eyes pensively, startling him.

"I could try some healing magic," she stated, rubbing her hands together.

"What do you mean 'try'?" he blurted out nervously, edging away from her.

"Wynne is good at some things…" She examined his armor, slightly puzzled, and addressed Jayne. "If I am to help him feel better, I need to place my hands on his stomach—"

"I think you should place your hands somewhere else if you want to make him feel a lot better…" Zevran grinned lewdly.

"I'd like to place my hands around your neck— that would make _me_ feel infinitely better," Morrigan retorted as Jayne unbuckled part of Alistair's chestplate .

She grasped the edge of his undershirt, pulling it up sufficiently, so that Morrigan could lay her hands beneath the armor. Whispering words in an unfamiliar tongue, Morrigan slid her hand over his abdomen. He recoiled at her touch.

"Cold! Cold!" he winced.

"I can remedy that with a fire bolt," she cautioned him.

"Now that would be 'hot,'" Zevran chuckled.

"And steamy!" Oghren snorted.

"They say Morrigan has a 'fiery' disposition, but she really strikes me as a 'warm' person!" Zevran laughed. Oghren joined him.

Morrigan had been focusing on maintaining her concentration, but turned around annoyed, her eyes crackling with magic. Alistair flinched nervously.

"Umm…That doesn't feel so good," he interrupted.

She directed her attention back to him, almost apologetically.

"Those two fools are distracting me," she complained. "Was it helping at all?" she asked.

He nodded faintly.

"Does it feel good when I touch you there, me darlin'?" Jayne heard Oghren whisper loudly in a mocking tone to Zevran.

"Mm! Magical!" he responded with exaggerated delight.

Both erupted in more furtive laughter.

"Honestly!" Jayne finally chided them. "I'm glad you can both be so ribald in the face of danger. I feel like I am shepherding an unruly group of children through a Chantry visit!"

 _Complete with child who inevitably gets ill_ , she thought, with slight exasperation.

She glared at Zevran and Oghren, daring them to make any more colorful quips as Morrigan continued her spell on Alistair. They avoided her stare, their heads downcast, their contriteness marred by the occasional muffled laugh. She directed her gaze back to Morrigan and Alistair, noticing that Morrigan had closed her eyes, in complete focus, as her lips chanted silently, her hand moving in a soothing and repetitive circular motion over his stomach and up his chest. His face still appeared sallow, but she noticed he was staring at Morrigan, almost as if intrigued by her.

"Are you feeling any better?" she finally asked, opening her light green eyes.

"I think so," he replied. "That may have helped," he added gratefully.

Their eyes lingered for a moment longer than politeness required, Jayne noticed, curious.

"Of course it did," she smirked, pleased with herself, as she took her staff from Jayne.

"That Morrigan is a real hands-on kind of gal," Oghren muttered.

"You know what they say about idle hands, don't you? That's why it's good to stay busy, have an occupation, a hand jo—"

"Enough!" Jayne cut them off irritatedly as Oghren rollicked with chortles.

"My sincerest apologies, Warden…and Morrigan. The fact you are here and able to assist is quite…handy," Zevran stated slyly.

He and Oghren broke out in more laughter.

 _So juvenile!_ Jayne thought, pinching the bridge of her nose as Morrigan tossed them a deflating stare of disdain.

A thunderous thud resounded further down the hallway. They all exchanged glances, suddenly alert. She quickly buckled Alistair's chestpiece back on.

"Are you well enough to forge ahead?" she whispered, examining his face.

"What was that?" Oghren asked.

They listened intently.

Shuffling steps, several, echoed down to them. A flicker of firelight reflected off the walls down the gloomy passageway.

"I think I can keep pace," Alistair declared. "But to be honest, I don't think I can charge and attack anything.

Jayne nodded and took a deep breath.

"Oghren, you come forward with me. Morrigan stand behind and between us. Zevran…"

She sought out his eyes. Before she was able to say anything, he wandered over to Alistair.

"Not the first time a Crow has served as a bodyguard to a contender to the throne. But these are far less glamorous circumstances, no? Allow me to do all the work; just relax and enjoy the view," he stated with a playful head nod at Alistair.

"Hullo, fleabags," Oghren muttered, gripping his mace determinedly as they approached the turn at the end of the hallway.


	24. Chapter 24

After the turn, the hallway led to a lone ornate door adorned with heavy filigree on its hinges. 

“Either someone uses this passageway often or we are being expected,” Jayne concluded, noting the lit torches. She seized the large iron ring hanging from the door and tested it, pulling it toward her gingerly. The door budged slightly, indicating it was unlocked. She gripped her sword and paused briefly, not turning while she addressed them.

“I do not know what awaits us beyond this door. Stay close, fight hard.” 

She wanted to add “Protect Alistair, _”_  but he seemed miserable already as it was, as he followed behind Morrigan somewhat unsteadily, his stomach bubbling. As she reached for the ring once more, the first torch went out. She turned in surprise only to see Zevran stealing away to the other torch.

“What are you doing?” she cried. The second torch went out and they were shrouded in darkness. 

 

“Giving us an advantage, my dear Warden. Look beneath the door.”

 

A sliver of light glowed brightly.

 

“They expect us to burst into the room. Let’s surprise them: the door opens, no one is there. They wander in to see… We pick off the first ones in. We rattle them and gain the upper hand,” he whispered excitedly.

 

“Not a bad plan,” Morrigan conceded sarcastically. “Unless they kill us first in the dark.”

 

“Or worse: we strike at each other,” Alistair worried.

 

“There is also one very important fact you are all missing,” Jayne cautioned. “These are half human, half wolf creatures. They are probably guided by their sense of smell, as well.”

 

Morrigan snapped her fingers, summoning a spark, and relit the torches.

 

“Rune was able to track me to Flemmeth’s hut after Ostagar. It’s a very powerful sense in these animals. I am willing to bet they know exactly where we are- probably have known every movement we’ve made throughout the ruins. Make no mistake: we are on the defensive.”

 

“Very well. We stick to the plan: jump out, hit everything hard. That’s why you people never have any good battle stories to tell. It’s just bash and smash. No finesse,” Zevran mumbled.

 

“I know how we can disorient them werewolves,” Oghren offered.

 

They stared at the dwarf who, taking advantage of the attention, wore an expression of stern concentration and effort before releasing a rip-roarious fart. Protests erupted in the narrow passageway.

 

“Curses upon Maferath, Oghren! Why would you do such a thing?” Jayne cried, pinching her nose in disgust.

 

“I am almost tempted to side with the creatures!” Morrigan grimaced.

 

“That’s what beans do,” Oghren stated simply.

 

“Puh! You smell like an odious sachet of doom,” Zevran complained, as Alistair began to look queasy again.

 

“A what?” Oghren asked confusedly.

 

“Get into position,” Jayne commanded between her teeth. “Same formation as before. Hold your places— on my count…”

 

“What’s a  _shashay_?” Oghren puzzled.

 

_Maker, if we make it out of this in one piece, I will remember not to bring these two together on any missions again_ , she thought, nervousness rising as she took the ring firmly and pulled.

 

A dimly lit passageway opened up before them, four thick columns forming an atrium of sorts at the center. Staircases abutted each side of the passage. Further ahead another staircase had been blocked off with a fence of wooden stakes, in an apparent attempt to barricade access.

_We are close._

A low growl to her right was echoed by another to her left. From each of the stairwells a group of werewolves ferociously rushed them. 

Morrigan swiftly summoned an explosive blaze from the ground, forcing the three wolves to her side to fall back. Oghren stormed the other group, who renewed its attacks even more angrily. Jayne followed him.

“Hold the werewolves at bay!” she cried to Morrigan, who shot bolts of fire, forcing the other group to hide in the stairwell. She knew Morrigan could only sustain her attacks for so long before she exhausted herself. The familiar scrape of Zevran's daggers being pulled out of their sheaths sounded behind her. Summoning all her determination, she stepped forward, swinging her sword before her in a forceful arc, cutting into the bodies in front of them. Oghren smashed his mace in a werewolf’s snout, blood splattering the stone wall. 

As she looked up again, she heard Oghren yell, “Watch out!”

Another werewolf’s fist beat the side of her helm. It shifted over her eyes momentarily, but she moved herself backwards, beyond his range. He pushed past her, aiming for Alistair, who’d been standing in a halting defensive stance behind them. She turned back to pursue it as the last werewolf began a full out assault upon them.

 

“Oghren!” she cried, chasing the escaped werewolf.

 

“I’ve got it,” he yelled gruffly, brandishing his mace as the werewolf tried to encroach upon them.

 

The werewolf who’d bypassed her lunged upon Alistair, knocking him down to his knees with ease. 

 

_No!_

 

Alistair frantically swatted at the creature, who then positioned itself strategically behind him, even as he tried to fight it off him.

 

_I cannot stop it! He is using Alistair’s body for protection!_

 

The creature snarled at her menacingly as she approached. The stench of charred flesh wafted towards them in curls of thick black smoke from the other stairwell. She could sense Morrigan and Zevran approach her cautiously. The werewolf bared its teeth, gnashing them in her direction anytime she made the smallest motion.

 

_He’s not wearing his helm. He took it off so he could breathe better,_ she agonized.

 

“Do not hurt him— we did not come here to fight you and your people. We want to talk to Witherfang. We need your help,” she spoke slowly and as calmly as she could. 

 

The werewolf held Alistair’s head in a chokehold. If it understood her words, it gave no indication other than an angry growl. Oghren began to walk up to her, but she signaled him to stop where he was. Alistair made a last attempt to loosen himself from the beast’s grip, but as he tried to wrench its arm off him, the werewolf snarled furiously, redirecting its attention from Jayne back to its captive. 

 

_It’s going to kill him,_ she realized with horror, as the werewolf shoved Alistair onto the ground, face down, as his claws exposed the back of his neck.

 

A low flying flicker of silver whizzed past her hip, a dagger lodging itself sharply between the werewolf’s eyes. The beast went limp, the expression of fury softening into obliviousness, as it collapsed into a lifeless heap over Alistair.

 

It took a brief moment for Jayne to register what had just occurred. She dashed over to Alistair, pushing the dead werewolf off and helped him back to his feet. He threw his head back and closed his eyes.

 

“I thought that was it,” he confessed. He was burning with fever, she realized.

 

“Please. You are in excellent hands,” Zevran scoffed. But Jayne could perceive even he was slightly unnerved by the attack. 

 

“I used up any reserve of power I had left,” Morrigan announced, rubbing her balled up hand with a pained expression. “I won’t be able to cast any spells for a while.”

 

Oghren peered at her, seeking guidance. Around them, even down the hall they had come from, she could hear scurrying. There was no turning back. The only way was forward, past the primitive fence.

 

“Quiet,” she cautioned softly. “They don’t need to know. We’ve won all our fights so far. We carry ourselves as if all were fine.”

 

She walked towards the barricade.

“Oghren and I lead. Morrigan stay behind us with Alistair. Zevran, follow them closely. If anything, we close ranks among us. Morrigan, none of us have your powers, so you are not at a significant disadvantage. These creatures are strong, but other than their teeth and claws, they don’t have any weapons. We strike at them, we hit their unarmored bodies. Use your staff as a weapon, if you have to. Strike them hard. We’ll protect you and Alistair. In the meantime," she spoke to Oghren and Zevran, "have your weapons at the ready.”

Zevran wandered to the werewolf's corpse to retrieve his dagger, pulling it out with more effort than anticipated, and then wiping the gore off the blade on the creature’s fur with a look of revulsion. Alistair issued a volley of dry heaves that ended in a pitiful groan. Zevran looked at her warily. She understood what his eyes were telling her; their situation had become dire.

 

“Forward,” she signaled them, past the barricade.


	25. Chapter 25

The barricade, Jayne realized, had probably been erected as some kind of defense against the undead who roamed the ruins. It hadn't been difficult to breach, but then again, the skeletal fighters they had encountered hadn't presented much of a challenge; they collapsed easily into piles of dust and fragmented bone. The party passed what was evidently a watch post: a pile of hay and blankets lay in a corner, next to an old lamp, a slightly bent, but sharp-tipped polearm, and the well picked off carcass of some small animal. They stepped over the makeshift shelter and ventured further ahead, down a series of stairwells that twisted and turned sharply, leading them to yet another door— this one imposing and foreboding. Growls, snarls, and low barks echoed from within. The group stayed close, hands tightly gripping weapons, the tension rising with every moment delayed before the closed door. Jayne swung it open, finding at first glance the expansive room surprisingly sparse. At the center, on a round stone dais, a rangy werewolf stood, facing them, upright and still. He held other werewolves beside and behind him at bay, motioning for them to remain in place.

"Don't stand down quite yet; stay on your guard," Jayne whispered cautiously, examining the werewolf.

He appeared old, she noticed. His black fur was tinged with silver and his muzzle was pale, all its hairs almost completely white. One of his eyes shone opaquely, cloudy and rheumy.

 _He's almost blind,_ she noticed, as he made a concerted effort to listen rather than look at them, his head tilted and his eyes downcast in the recognizable fog of those whose vision has begun to fail them. His ears twitched and she realized with a twinge of sadness that his aged countenance reminded her of Hunter, Fergus' Mabari ,who'd died only the past year after eighteen years of loyal companionship. They both shared the same cautious and grave expression.

"If only he could talk! What august advice would he dispense!" she and her father would tease anytime Hunter insisted in following Fergus to any of their meetings.

"He does, in his own way" Fergus protested, only half-jokingly. "He perceives things no one else picks up on."

Hunter had never liked Howe. Towards the end, anytime the man went to Highever, Hunter would growl persistently, to all of the Couslands' embarrassment. They attributed the dog's curious animosity to old age, senility.

_I wish I had made more of that dislike._

She lowered her sword, an offering of appeasement. The other werewolves became agitated, but the elder werewolf intervened.

"Stop! Brothers and sisters, be at ease!" he cried out, his voice firm and clear despite the characteristic raspiness of the werewolves' speech. He lifted his head and his milky eyes roamed towards a fixed point above them. She sheathed her sword, despite Zevran's brief protest behind her, and stepped up on the dais, facing the stately werewolf. She patiently stood as he inhaled, sniffing the air, his lightless eyes attempting to take in her form.

"We do not wish any more of our people hurt," he revealed at last. "I ask you this now, outsider: are you willing to parley?" he continued, above the disapproving roars all around them. The other werewolves hunched forward eagerly, ready to spring upon them at the slightest command.

"Like you parlayed with the Dalish?" she asked suspiciously. She was not going to seize upon a false promise and lead them into a trap.

"That was different. The Lady believes that the Dalish have not told you everything, so she has asked that you be brought to her."

 _The Lady, again. Who is this mysterious Lady?_ she wondered, intrigued.

"She means you no harm, provided your willingness to parley in peace is an honest one."

"If you were willing to talk, why didn't you earlier?" she asked, a slight edge in her voice, glancing over her shoulder at her ragged group.  _And spared us all much misery?_

The old werewolf thought for a moment before answering.

"Swiftrunner did not think it would matter. The Lady disagrees, and since you have forced your way this far, we must acquiesce to her wishes."

"Is your Lady…Witherfang?" she finally asked.

"She is not Witherfang. But she can tell you of Witherfang, if you ask," he assured her. He then stood straighter. "But first you must agree to parley."

"Then take me to this Lady," Jayne agreed, nodding respectfully. She signaled the others, and they approached.

"Follow me. But I warn you: if you break your promise and harm her, I will come back from the Fade itself to see you pay," he warned them passionately, his voice shaking ever so slightly.

She did not doubt for a moment he would make good on his threat.


	26. Chapter 26

The elder werewolf led them through another arching passageway into a cavernous, domed room. Jayne recognized the structure they had glimpsed from the distance as they approached the ruins earlier in the day. The room remained fairly well preserved and even as they brushed past a crowded line of low growling, glaring werewolves, Jayne couldn't help marveling at the strange beauty of the room: the soaring ceiling, the finely detailed stonework, and the trees. Trees the like of which she had never seen before, their branches unnaturally long, linked and entwined with each other. Their limbs reached ever upwards, towards the light as if in supplication, seeking an escape from all the gloom and dankness surrounding them. Leafy tendrils of green wrapped themselves around columns and sprung from the cracks between the broken slabs of ancient stone. As they approached another circular dais at the foot of an enormous trunk, the tree's roots piercing the stone and creating new mysterious passages, her eyes landed on Swiftrunner awaiting them, solemnly. His arm had been bandaged, she noticed, with slight satisfaction. As they approached him, the werewolves closed in behind them. She maintained her head held up, her gaze level and serene, but her heart tightened in growing fear. They were no match against those numbers. Especially when they had been so crippled. For a terrifying moment, they stood directly across Swiftrunner, who examined them disdainfully, encouraging the other werewolves to become more and more frenzied around them. Swiftrunner joined them in an intimidating show of strength as they growled and howled over one another. Jayne was sure that any hopes she had nurtured for a standstill were crumbling under the feral display before them. She had been so intent on observing Swiftrunner, though, that she had failed to notice the slender figure weaving her path through effortlessly between the lined up werewolves. A woman emerged by Swiftrunner's side, laying a placating hand on his wounded arm. At her touch, he startled and then stilled, and all around them fell silent. To Jayne's amazement, he dropped to his knees. As she glanced at her companions, she caught Morrigan's expression of sheer entrancement. This was no ordinary woman, no mere witch, she realized.

She was clad in brambles and vines wrapped delicately over her arms and legs; it was the only attire over her fair, smoke-hued skin. She examined the scene unfurling before her with her shadowy eyes, lustrous as onyx. Thick black hair obscured part of her face and cascaded past her shoulders, over her full breasts, down her naked back. She moved gracefully, as if she were, in fact, made of mist and dream.

In quick succession, one werewolf after another reverently knelt before her.

"I bid you welcome, mortal." She was soft-spoken and Jayne immediately recognized the voice she had heard in the woods. "I am the Lady of the Forest."

"I expected another werewolf," Jayne admitted.

An earthy scent permeated the room.

 _Tilled earth, the same smell that rises from the fields after a good rainstorm_ , Jayne remembered longingly.

All around her the air stirred with an unfelt breeze that ruffled small leaves over the ground where she walked, puffs of pollen and tiny flower buds suspended about her, like fireflies in a grove.

"No, that I am not," she explained. "If I could have revealed myself sooner, I would have."

"Do not listen to her, Lady! She will betray you! We must attack her now!" Swiftrunner implored.

"Hush, Swiftrunner. Your urge for battle has only seen the death of the very ones you have been trying to save. Is that what you want?" she reasoned with him, without drawing her eyes away from Jayne.

"No, my Lady," he replied. "Anything but that."

He hung his head low.

"Then the time has come to speak with this outsider, to set our rage aside," she encouraged them, not without kindness in her voice. "I apologize on Swiftrunner's behalf. He struggles with his nature."

"As do we all, Lady," Jayne nodded, mesmerized and grateful for the detente.

She contemplated the Lady's gentle demeanor, her silken voice, and felt, for once, at peace. She thought she understood, even if only briefly, the wonder mages struggled to describe anytime they attempted to explain what it was like to commune with spirits. She also realized that such fascination was precisely the doorway for many a downward trajectory into blood magic, among demons and abominations.

"Truer words were never spoken," the Lady acknowledged sadly. "But few would claim the same as these creatures: that their very nature is a curse forced upon them. No doubt you have questions, mortal. There are things that Zathrian has not told you."

"How do you know what he has or has not told me?" she wondered.

"Because there are things that he would not tell. Things that you should decide for yourself whether you need to know. It was Zathrian who created the curse that these creatures suffer, the same curse that Zathrian's own people now suffer."

Jayne stole a sheepish glance at Zevran, who stared back smugly, arching an eyebrow in an "I -told-you-so" expression.

_Yes, you were right. I hope we make it out of here so you can brag about it._

"Centuries ago, when the Dalish first came to this land, a tribe of humans lived close to this forest. They sought to drive the Dalish away. Zathrian was a young man then. He had a son and daughter he loved greatly, and while out hunting, the human tribe captured them both." She paused.

Swiftrunner continued for her, in a somber tone.

"The humans…tortured the boy, killed him. The girl they raped, left for dead." Jayne lowered her eyes, a familiar sorrowful outrage rising within. "The Dalish found her, but she learned later she was…with child. She…killed herself."

Jayne heard his words and closed her eyes: Highever raw and alive in her mind, sweet Oren lying in a pool of his own blood, Oriana's corpse grotesquely tossed beside it, her dying gesture a protective, outstretched hand towards her little boy.

_Only darkness there._

"So Zathrian cursed them, I take it," she said quietly.

"Zathrian," Swiftrunner continued, more animatedly, " came to this ruin and summoned a terrible spirit, binding it to the body of a great wolf. So Witherfang came to be." He approached them. " Witherfang hunted the humans of the tribe. Many were killed, but others were cursed by his blood, becoming twisted and savage creatures…"

"Twisted and savage just as Witherfang himself is," the Lady interrupted. "They were driven into the forest. When the human tribe finally left for good, their cursed brethren remained, pitiful and mindless animals."

Morrigan nodded beside her, as if all she had heard made sense.

Swiftrunner reverently dropped to one knee again.

"Until I found you, my Lady. You gave me peace."

"I showed Swiftrunner that there was another side to his bestial nature. I soothed his rage, and his humanity emerged. And he brought others to me."

"These werewolves still seem plenty savage to me," she murmured, remembering the one who almost mauled Alistair's neck.

"The curse cannot entirely be abated. Each new victim it claims must be brought to me before the healing can begin. We seek to end the curse. The crimes committed against Zathrian's children were grave," she acknowledged, "but they were committed centuries ago by those who are long dead." Her expression hardened. "Word was sent to Zathrian every time the landships passed this way, asking him to come, but he has always ignored us. We will no longer be denied.

Swiftrunner let out a low roar.

"We spread the curse to his people! So he must end the curse to save them!"

"Please, mortal…" she beseeched Jayne, "you must go to him. Bring him here. If he sees these creatures, hears their plight…surely he will agree to end the curse!"

Jayne thought about her words carefully.

"Why would Zathrian agree to come here alone?" she asked doubtfully.

They would have to find another way.

"If Zathrian comes, I shall summon Witherfang. I possess that power. I also have the power to ensure Witherfang is never found," she cautioned. "Tell Zathrian this. If he does not come, if he does not break the curse, he will never find Witherfang, and he will never cure his people."

Jayne considered her words. There was little choice if they were to find a resolution.

"Very well. I will go to Zathrian and tell him this."

The Lady glanced at her hopefully.

"Then we shall await your return." She turned towards to her left, a door illuminated by glowing braziers nearby. "Outside this chamber, the passage leading back to the surface has been opened for you. Return with Zathrian as soon as you can."

She stepped aside, as did the werewolves. Jayne breathed a shaky sigh of relief once they found themselves safely outside the chamber, the staircases leading upward brightly lit and quiet.

_That was close. Too close._

_Thank you, my Lady._


	27. Chapter 27

They made their way up the apparently never-ending staircases.

"How do we get Zathrian here?" Jayne pondered as she and Zevran helped Alistair, his arms tossed over their shoulders, up the wide stairs.

"That was a spirit," Morrigan marveled. "She somehow has acquired a human, physical form without having possessed a body. It is very powerful magic indeed. I would like to know how it was achieved," she added with admiration.

"Nothing good would come of it," Alistair grumbled.

"Perhaps when fools are involved," she agreed, "but imagine what knowledge, what wisdom could be acquired from such a being…"

"And deceit. Don't forget deceit. There is a reason summoning these spirits can only be accomplished through blood magic," he warned.

"But that's what is interesting! The Lady isn't a demon! She wasn't summoned from the Fade! She IS the forest! I've communicated with spirits before, but never in material form such as this!" Morrigan continued enthusiastically.

Jayne moved through the dim stairwells as if awakening from an odd dream. She had felt the pull the Lady had over…all of them. She felt she finally understood why Wynne would willingly welcome the spirit she harbored and that sustained her during their voyages.

_Their presence envelops us with comforting feelings— I felt peace…I did not feel so alone._

She recalled how Wynne's confession about the spirit had unnerved her. A spirit and a human were two separate entities. Together, they formed an abomination, a neither here nor there creature, corrupt and sinister. And yet, Wynne was anything but an abomination. She only spoke of the spirit with love and trust. She believed with an unwavering faith. And that was something she could comprehend. Jayne believed herself a person of faith.

 _Some faith, anyways,_ she realized guiltily.

She did not know or ponder the Canticle as well as she should and she had attended services mostly as an obligation, as a show of respect, to foster community among the people of Highever and the Chantry. But if her travels and toils had reaffirmed anything, it was that it was folly to pretend to understand the whims of the Maker. She'd met demons who had been no more worse than the power-mad leaders she'd crossed paths with, except perhaps that the demons had been more forthcoming about their wants. She had seen the deepest, purest piety from a young woman whose bloodied hand trafficked in secrets and lives, and witnessed great cowardice and betrayal from those sworn to fight and defend the innocent. One morning she was heir to one of the greatest teyrndoms of Ferelden. The next she was a fugitive, the Taint pulsing through her veins. The people she trusted with her life she would never have expected to do so once: a king's bastard son, an apostate mage raised by a dragon woman, a Qunari warrior. The man she loved had begun their courtship with an attack on her life. She grinned as they huffed up the steps, Alistair gradually weighing more on her the closer they got to the surface.

_I have lived more in these past few months than ever._

"Perhaps it's the Maker's way of making amends, for all I will not get to enjoy," she muttered to herself.

"What?" Alistair turned his head heavily to her. She pat his arm over her shoulder.

"Nothing, nothing. Just thinking to myself."

At the top of the staircase they heard sounds— footsteps and the reverberations of something heavy striking the ground. She stopped, carefully removing Alistair's arm from around her neck and they all listened, cautious and battle-worn. She raised her finger to her lips and, signaling Zevran to follow her, made her way up the remaining steps.

"Ah, here you are, already," the weary voice greeted them as they reached the top of the landing. There, stooping over the discolored, frostbitten remains of undead warriors, was Zathrian. She couldn't say she was entirely surprised to see him there, of all places. He rose and stepped back, clutching his staff firmly. He appeared to bristle at the sight of them, magic coursing over his skin in veined ripples of light as she approached him.

"Somehow I figured I'd find you here," she stated. Zevran stood slightly behind her and she could hear the shuffling footsteps of the others nearing the landing.

"Did you? Aren't you the intuitive one." He offered her a bitter, mirthless grin. "There was no way to tell what would happen once you reached this ruin, so I decided to come myself."

"You mean you wanted to make sure I got the heart," she said, more accusatorially than intended. He smirked.

"Just so. Did you?" His eyes gleamed, hard and cold.

_This is what you've become. Would your loved ones recognize you today? Find any vestige of who you were?_

Jayne crossed her arms.

"No," she declared. "I didn't."

He began to pace before her.

"May I ask, then, why are you leaving the ruin?" His tone was strained, the anger barely contained.

"I've been sent to bring you back to the Lady of the Forest."

He stopped before her.

"Oh? Is that what the spirit calls herself now?" An expression of scorn surfaced in his eyes. "And what does she want with me, if I might inquire?" He resumed his pacing.

"She won't summon Witherfang unless you break the curse."

At this, he turned toward them, his stare black.

"You do understand that she actually  _is_  Witherfang?"

She remained still, trying not to betray her surprise.

"I thought Witherfang was a male wolf…" she finally admitted.

"She is the powerful spirit of this ancient forest that I summoned long ago and bound in the body of the wolf," Zathrian told her, all pretenses laid aside. "Her nature is that of the forest itself. Beautiful and terrible, serene and savage, maiden and beast. She is the Lady and Witherfang both, two sides of a single being. The curse came first from her. Those afflicted with it mirrored her own nature, becoming savage beast as well as human."

"Zathrian, the werewolves have regained their minds," Jayne pointed out.

"I find that difficult to believe," he glanced at her. "They attacked my clan and they were the same savages then that they have ever been. They deserve to be wiped out and not defended."

_Wiped out._

The words echoed in her mind and she shivered.

_Hadn't those same words been uttered so often, just as laden with hate, about the Dalish?_

She examined the wiry man.

_How long before we come to embody that which we despise?_

He strode impatiently to the landing.

"Come. I will accompany you back to the ruin. Let us go and speak to the spirit and I will force her into Witherfang's form. He may then be slain and the heart taken."

Jayne startled.

_This is not what I intended!_

"Won't you at least consider talking to them?" she insisted. She was not going to facilitate any mindless slaughter.

"Why?" he asked, genuinely surprised. "You claim they have regained their minds, but they are still savage beasts. Their nature is unchanged."

She was about to protest when he continued, more passionately.

"All they want is revenge…or a release that I will not give them. No, let us take the heart and end it!"

_Can you hear yourself, Zathrian? Who wants revenge now?_

He reached the landing and faced the steps. She was met with her companions' inquisitive stares.

"Do you still have so much hatred after all this time?"

It was an earnest question. She feared the reply.

"You were not there. You did not see what…what they did to my son. To my daughter. And so many others."

She stared at the dead scattered on the ground.

_I was there, Zathrian. Another place, another time…different loved ones. But I was there. It was the same hatred. The same cruelty. I know it. All too intimately. I hoped you would tell me what lies beyond it. But you can't. You are trapped._

"You are not Dalish," he accused. "How can you know how we had to struggle to be safe? How could I have let their crimes go unanswered?"

"But it's your own people suffering now, as well as them."

He faced her again.

"I have sworn to protect my people, and I shall. I will not lift a finger to help the descendants of savages who deserved the curse they received!"

"So your answer is to let them suffer forever?"

_It will never heal, then?_

"Tell me," he said somberly, his voice low. "If you held your own daughter's lifeless body in your arms, would you not also have sworn an eternity of pain on those who did such to her?"

_My loved ones were denied proper rites; their remains were probably tossed into a shallow ditch, deemed unworthy of much more, decreed as traitors. The last image I have of my mother is of her glancing over her shoulder at us, urging Duncan and me to escape. I'll never forget the defiance in her eyes as she crouched beside my father. I thought then that she laid her life down there because she could not bear to be parted from him…Now I realize she also did so to give us time to escape…_

_So that I could live._

_Would she have wished such a poisoned life for me?_

"I don't know, Zathrian. I might have," she replied quietly. He appeared taken aback. He nodded slightly. "But who is being punished now?" she asked pointedly.

_What solace does this bring, Zathrian? Is this kind of life worth living?_

He exhaled deeply.

"Very well. You wish me to go and talk? I will do so," he agreed." "But what if it is only more revenge they wish? Will you safeguard me from harm?" he challenged her.

She eyed him cautiously.

"I will," she promised. "Unless…you attack first."

He took a step towards her, but Zevran deftly stepped between them, blocking his way. Zathrian sized him up contemptuously.

"I fail to see the purpose behind this…but very well," he finally declared, rubbing his forehead. "It has been many centuries, now. Let us see what the spirit has to say."

He began to climb down the stairs.

"Do we have to go all the way down again?" Alistair winced.

Zevran ignored him and made his way after Zathrian.

"Zathrian is stomping down those steps quickly and he is a loose cannon. I suggest you pick up the pace if you want our friends to play nicely and for us to make it back to camp in one piece, Warden," Zevran said to her before his head disappeared down the stairwell.

"Oghren," Jayne turned to the dwarf. "Take Alistair somewhere out of the way—somewhere safer— and wait for us." She looked at Morrigan. "Do you have any strength whatsoever left that you can draw upon?"

"I always have something, but it won't amount to much, certainly not enough for a battle—"

"Wait for our signal," she interrupted, turning back to Oghren. If you don't hear from us soon, then get Alistair back to camp in one piece. Now, go!" She pointed to the arching doorway leading to a stone courtyard outside.

"I'm not going anywhere—"Alistair protested.

"Oghren!" Jayne said sharply. He grumbled and seized Alistair by the belt, tugging him along forcefully.

"Come on, pike-twirler. Let's get some fresh air, just you an' me."

She watched them wander through the courtyard briefly, Oghren sullenly leading the way past the arches and Alistair's shoulders hunched forward, in evident discomfort. She followed Morrigan downwards.


	28. Chapter 28

Jayne hurried, finally catching up to Zevran, who was on Zathrian's heels. The man moved purposefully through the halls and passageways, bursting imposingly through the open doorway and into the domed chamber.

Upon sighting him, the werewolves backed away, snarling and roaring angrily. Zathrian continued his march forward, unperturbed, stopping only once he stood before the Lady. They contemplated each other in an uneasy silence. The werewolves began to assemble around the Lady protectively.

"So here you are, spirit," Zathrian murmured.

Swiftrunner lurched forward, towering over Zathrian's head. He shaped his words between heavy, gnarled breaths.

"She is the Lady of the Forest! You will address her properly!" he commanded.

Zathrian's eyes widened.

"You've taken a name, spirit? And you've given names to your pets? These…beasts who follow you?" he asked mockingly.

The air shimmered as the Lady raised her head towards Witherfang.

"It was they who gave me a name, Zathrian," she explained. "And the names they take are their own. They follow me because I help them to find who they are."

She spoke calmly, her tone gentle and unwavering. Jayne thought she could even detect sympathy in her voice. He gestured towards the werewolves.

"Who they are has not changed from whom their ancestors were. Wild savages! Worthless dogs! Their twisted shape only mirrors their monstrous hearts!" he spat.

"He will not help us, Lady! It is as I warned you! He is not here to talk!" Swiftrunner turned warningly to her.

"No, I am here to talk," Zathrian stated, curbing his hostile tone somewhat, "though I see little point in it. We all know where this will lead. Your nature compels it, as does mine."

"It does not have to be that way," she said patiently, taking a few steps towards the Keeper. "There is room in your heart for compassion, Zathrian. Surely your retribution is spent," she pleaded.

He lowered his eyes under her melancholy gaze.

"My retribution is eternal, spirit, as is my pain. This is justice. No more."

The Lady averted her eyes.

"Are you certain your pain is the only reason you will not end this curse? Have you told the mortal how it was created?"

"He said he summoned you and bound you to a wolf," Jayne explained.

"And so he did." She nodded pensively. "Witherfang and I are bound as one being. But such powerful magic could not be accomplished without Zathrian's own blood."

The Lady addressed Zathrian again.

"Your people believe you have rediscovered the immortality of their ancestors, Zathrian, but that is not true. So long as the curse exists…so do you," she stated simply.

"No!" he objected. "That is not how it is!"

Jayne grimaced.

_This just gets worse!_

"Just how far will you go for your revenge, Zathrian?" Jayne inquired.

"I did it for my people! I did it for my son, and my daughter! For them, for justice, I would do anything!"

_Maybe you did it for them once. Not any longer. I don't think you even know why you still do it, Zathrian. You do it out of habit, because you have forgotten all else._

"The curse would not end with Zathrian's death. His life, however, relies on its existence. And I believe his death plays a part in its ending," the Lady stated, her voice echoing through the room.

Swiftrunner bent toward him, his heavy maw gaping, his words almost unintelligible.

"Then we kill him! We tear him apart now!"

"For all your powers of speech, you are beasts still!" Zathrian cried out. "What would you gain from killing me? Only I know how the ritual ends, and I will never do it!"

Swiftrunner roared savagely.

"You see? We must kill them all!"

Zathrian glared at her darkly.

"See? They turn on you as quickly. Do what you have come here to do, Grey Warden, or get out of my way!" he threatened.

_Enough. There is no good reason to prolong this._

Jayne unsheathed her sword and for a moment, all was still in the room as they waited to see what her next move would be.

"You'll end that curse if I have to force you myself!" she declared.

"Then you die with them! All of you will suffer as you deserve!" Zathrian raised his staff and waved his hand before him, a spark of energy flaring before them.

At the same time, a brilliant flash of light burst over the Lady and standing in her stead was the white wolf she had encountered before. It lifted its head towards the dome and howled— a mournful howl filled with sorrow.

The fight began immediately, in a frenzy of confusion. From the darkest corners, dormant entities awakened, summoned forth from the Fade to fall upon them. Morrigan stamped her foot down before them and whispered an incantation, summoning a protective barrier of light around them. The werewolves gnashed their teeth ineffectively at the murky, incorporeal forms slinking fluidly towards her small party.

"I won't be able to hold it up for long," Morrigan told her, as the shades drifted closer.

"How do we stop them?" Zevran asked.

"You don't. Stay out of their way and attack Zathrian instead. Weaken him and the link is severed."

"Can you provide a distraction?" Jayne ducked as a branch swiveled over her head. They watched in wonder as some of the smaller trees had come to life, moving heavily and awkwardly towards the center of the room.

 _Sylvans_!

Zevran tried to sneak up along the wall towards Zathrian, who'd added to the chaos by casting smoky magic to obscure and conceal himself. Jayne saw him disappear into a cloud of thick fog only to watch him scurry back out, a volley of icy bolts striking his back with pummeling force. He collapsed to the floor mid-run, his face contorted in a pained grimace.

"Zevran!" she cried out, her voice drowned out by a buffeting wind that rose from another corner of the room. He slumped to the side, smarting from the impact. She placed herself before him defensively, as he teetered to his feet.

"I am alright, Warden," he replied breathlessly, staggering backwards. They retreated until they were back behind Morrigan, her barrier starting to sputter and flicker.

 _Who is friend, who is foe?_  she wondered in the chaos that had been unleashed around them.

Sylvans grappled with the shades, who struck at their limbs. Splintered branches, still laden with leaves, littered the ground as if a gale had struck the room. Zathrian struck the werewolves with magical attacks from his staff. They yelped and scattered, seeking a different way to approach him. The white wolf crouched low, biding its time to pounce.

_This is madness!_

She raised her sword in a protective guard and rushed him. He turned his staff towards her, a barrage of ice shards shooting at her. She lowered her head, deflecting them with her helm and armor.

_One… two…three… four…five._

It took him approximately four to five precious seconds to rebound from a spell, she realized. He conjured another shade beside him and ushered it forward. A werewolf sprung into the blurry form, tangling with it, rolling noisily towards the center of the room. Jayne continued her rush forward, through the swirling fog, raising her arms before her like a shield before the next wave of shards struck her. She glanced often to the ground— the walls and even the pattern on the stone guiding her in a direct line. She finally glimpsed his feet before her, and with a well-aimed, firm kick, struck the base of his staff, loosening it from his grasp. It clattered down noisily, a few steps away. As he leaned over to fetch it, Jayne struck him with the flat of her sword, hitting him squarely between the shoulder blades. Zathrian cried out in pain and faltered to the ground, his arms outstretched to keep him from collapsing. A thin and faint bolt of fire splashed over him, causing the fibers of his robe to glow and smolder briefly. Jayne turned her head to where Morrigan stood, and saw the witch, a tired, but furious expression on her face, swoop down to seize the staff away from his reach. He shouted once more, this time kneeling weakly, his arms drooping by his side.

The shades dissolved in the air, and the sylvans halted their attacks. The wolves circled them predatorily.

"No, no more," he announced weakly. "I cannot…cannot defeat you…" he stated, staring at his staff.

Witherfang took several strides toward him, and as he did, his shape morphed into the upright form of the Lady. She halted before the fallen Zathrian, examining him. Swiftrunner followed, beside her.

"Finish it! Kill him now!" he bellowed, baring his teeth.

"No, Swiftrunner," she said entreatingly, keeping him from Zathrian with her outstretched arm. "We will not kill him!" She sought out Zathrian's wan face with her dark eyes. "If there is no room in our hearts for mercy, how may we expect there to be room in his?"

"I cannot do as you ask, spirit," he said, defeatedly. "I am too old…to know mercy. All I see are the faces of my children, my people. I…cannot do it."

"Hasn't this gone on long enough, Zathrian?" Jayne asked, sheathing her sword.

His stare did not move from the Lady's eyes. Jayne noticed that they were remarkably similar in their darkness and sadness.

"Perhaps I have…lived too long," he stated falteringly. "This hatred in me is like an ancient, gnarled root…It has consumed my soul," he lamented.

 _And like a root it has sustained and nourished you,_  Jayne thought.

She looked at the Lady, who watched Zathrian, a benevolent expression over her placid face.

"What of you spirit?" he raised his eyes meaningfully to her. "You are bound to the curse just as I am. Do you not fear your end?"

"You are my maker, Zathrian. You gave me form and consciousness where none existed. I have known pain and love, hope and fear, all the joy that is life," she told him tenderly, bending forward, cupping his chin and raising his face to her meet hers. "Yet, of all things, I desire nothing more than an end."

He tilted his head and contemplated the Lady with slight wonder.

"I beg you maker…put an end to me. We beg you…show mercy," she implored.

Zathrian listened to her in solemn silence. He then bowed before her, reverently. The werewolves stepped back, bowing their heads as well.

"You shame me spirit," he finally said, his voice laden with emotion. " I am an old man, alive long past his time."

"Then you will do it?" she asked, filled with hope. "You will end the curse?"

He peered at the ground heavily, unable to respond at first.

"Yes," he sighed. "I think it is time. Let us…let us put an end to it all," he said weakly, his eyes brimming with tears.

Swiftrunner lifted his clawed hand and placed it on the Lady's shoulder, protectively. She nodded reassuringly at him. The werewolves stirred, the excitement among them palpable. Zathrian motioned for his staff and Morrigan dismissed him until the Lady graciously bowed her head at her. Jayne noticed Morrigan frown as she handed him the braided wood staff.

"It's a shame," she muttered under her breath. "What a waste."

She craned her neck so she could watch what was happening. For a long time, as if they had frozen in their places, Zathrian stared at the Lady, and she at him. He abruptly grasped his staff, and struck the ground forcefully. Tendrils of light first emanated from the tips of his fingers, slowly spreading over his arms, and chest. The light glowed brightly and enveloped him completely as he gradually went limp and crumpled to the ground, lifelessly. The Lady closed her eyes.

"Ar lasa mala revas…" she recited.

The mysterious breeze stirred about them once more and the werewolves surrounded their beloved Lady.

"It won't be long now," she consoled them with a wistful smile.

The brambles and vines twirled around her limbs had became verdant and lush in those final moments. Flowers bloomed where the vines had run sallow and withered before. The werewolves lowered their heads in sorrow. The Lady searched for her among the crowd. Plucking a white bloom from the back of her hand, she stepped forth, offering it to her and pressing it in her palm.

"No matter how harsh or cruel the winter, spring always comes." Jayne struggled to hear her, as her voice came out faintly, the echoes of a dissolving dream. "Hatred and grief can only hurt you if you choose to nurture them. Remember this when darkness encroaches, like the resilient earth remembers the promise of spring." She retreated into the circle of werewolves.

They huddled around her. She lovingly whispered words of farewell to them, words unintelligible to her, but that made the creatures reach helplessly for her wavering form. Then, tossing her head back, she erupted into a column of radiant light, streaming ever upwards. Jayne clutched the small white flower in her fist, her eyes wet. When she drew her gaze back to the circle, she noticed Zathrian's body glowing brighter and stronger, obfuscating everything surrounding it, until she had to avert her eyes, the light too dazzling for her to behold.

"The werewolves!" Morrigan exclaimed.

They, too, had turned their faces away, but the light engulfed them and they fell to the ground awkwardly. As the light began to dim around them, she noticed they were surrounded by people instead of werewolves. They stared in stupefaction at themselves and each other, extending their arms and wriggling their fingers. They gasped and startled at their smooth bodies, spoke in human voices. They laughed tearfully, embracing each other, unaccustomed to their unexpected shapes.

"It's…over. She's gone, and…we're human. I can scarcely believe it," a man addressed her, his voice tremulous with incredulity.

"Human…and quite naked," Zevran mumbled behind her. "Who is going to tell them, I wonder?"

Jayne smiled. The man standing before her had been Swiftrunner. She recognized his large, expressive brown eyes.

"You won't miss all that strength and speed?"

He no longer stooped over her, she realized.

"Compared to the beast inside that we had to fight every moment, this is just fine. It feels glorious!" he cheered.

"What will you do now?" she asked, concerned.

"We'll leave the forest, I suppose. Find other humans, see what's out there for us. It should be quite interesting, don't you think?" He turned to his companions, seeking their approval.

"If you make an entrance in this state, most definitely," Zevran snorted.

The people peered around at each other.

Jayne reached inside her armor for the pouch she carried with her. She drew it out with some difficulty, but then offered it to Swiftrunner.

"Take this gold with you. Head north and west, as far away from here as you can. A Blight is coming and threatens to overrun the forest soon," she warned them. "You are no longer safe in these ruins without the Lady's protection…Do you have any clothes?" she asked at last, trying to avert her eyes from all the nude bodies surrounding them.

"We must collect some of our belongings, make preparations before we depart…We have some things here and there," he replied as a few of them nodded. "But we can make do with the blankets and covers we have, until we reach the nearest settlement."

"Please be careful," she advised them.

"Thank you," he said. "We…we'll never forget you."

With that, he turned to his companions and they quickly disappeared through another subterranean doorway.

 _It is over_.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Three updates in one night? I know a certain Antivan would approve.
> 
> I just had to get us out of those ruins. Moving right along... ;-)

Morrigan shot a small flare into the air. They'd watched it dissolve above them in a cascade of glowing sparks before shouting out for Oghren and Alistair. Oghren finally appeared from behind a set of broken gates, tugging Alistair by the wrist. After exchanging a few words and reassuring the two that they were returning to camp, they ventured towards the path back to the forest. Her shoulder ached where she had fallen on it earlier, struck down by Witherfang. She wondered if Bodhan would manage to find them some ice. Zevran's displeased expression betrayed that his back probably felt sore as well. Morrigan moved slowly; she had lent her staff to Alistair, who was using it as a walking stick. He'd been skittish about taking it at first, once Morrigan had offered it.

"Are you sure I won't accidentally unleash some terrible spell?"

Morrigan riled him further by causing the staff's shaft to glow as if consumed by fire once he had grasped it. He yelped in surprise, releasing the staff immediately. While his mortified expression was made all the more comical by the frantic wiping of his hands over his chest plate, they were all too exhausted to laugh. After grinning smugly, Morrigan grabbed the staff off the ground and returned it to his hand. Only Oghren among them moved spryly, apparently no worse for the wear.

"Elf!" he yelled.

"Oghren…" Zevran replied, further back, striding alongside her.

"I forgot what I was going to tell you!"

"I'm glad you remembered to let me know."

He sought out her hand, entwining his fingers between hers.

She cast him a shy, sideways glance, gripping his hand tighter. She welcomed the warmth of his touch, especially since she was far from feeling relief: there was still Lanaya and the Dalish to contend with. She did not know how they would take their Keeper's death. What-ifs kept racing through her mind as she attempted to prepare for various contingencies: what if the Dalish assumed they had killed Zathrian? What if they were holding the others captive? What if the curse wasn't broken at the camp?

All scenarios imagined ended in the same way: with Mithra, charging at her bullishly.

"I'm glad he forgot," she said absentmindedly. "I don't know that I'm ready for more of your antics. The two of you were quite impossible back there."

"You mean delightful and charming," he grinned, leaning into her.

"Well…I wouldn't take it that far," she remarked.

"Your words crush me," he feigned hurt.

"I'd actually like to ask you something," she continued, dread over being the bearer of terrible news to the Dalish beginning to overwhelm her.

"Anything," he replied.

"Please don't undermine me like that again."

He said nothing and they continued walking through the thick forest. Oghren began talking to Morrigan and Zevran took advantage of the distraction to address her.

"How did I undermine you, pray tell?"

She looked at him with surprise.

"Just the way the two of you were carrying on down there."

"Did I fail to follow any of your commands?" he asked.

His voice was perfectly calm, but behind it was a strained tone she had grown to understand was veiled annoyance.

"No, but—"

"Yes, do explain."

"The joking around…It was just…inappropriate."

"Warden, have you ever known me to be otherwise? I believe when we met, you had a sword aimed at my chest and I told you I found you 'utterly gorgeous.' That I am this way should hardly be a surprise at this point and I wonder why it should be any different now." He withdrew his hand from hers and crossed his arms defensively.

It was true, she conceded. She was just so tired, so nervous, though. She sighed.

"But far be it from me to cause any difficulties. You have my apologies." He tipped his head curtly in her direction.

"Why are you being so touchy?" Jayne complained.

"And why are you finding fault with me where before there had been none?" he snapped, stomping away and keeping pace with Oghren.

She watched his broad shoulders ahead of her, his head pointed downwards as he engaged in a brief conversation with the dwarf.

_Maybe everyone just needs to cool off. We're all spent._

His arms swung by his side and she stared at his hands longingly.

 _Perhaps its best if everyone just gets a good night of sleep tonight_ , she told herself stoically.

She tucked some loose strands of hair behind her ear, her mind rehashing the odd exchange.

_There's nothing wrong with expressing how I feel. Besides, that's what we agreed upon. I was just being honest._

_Honest?_

_Or anxious?_

She had been thinking about Mithra and how the woman unnerved and irked her.

_Perhaps I am still a bit on edge. But what's wrong in telling him to scale back the antics? Although he DID do everything I asked him to…Saved Alistair's life…Even if his way of blowing off steam is childish and…_

The realization struck her like a slap to the back of her head.

_This isn't an army, Jayne._

_Zevran was just being Zevran._

_None of them follow me because of rank,_ she thought guiltily.

 _This is the militia at Highever all over again,_ she realized sheepishly.

She remembered Fergus chuckling at her heavy-handedness when, as a teenager, she was offered her first command: she was to lead the Cousland militia. Highever had had an army, of course, a force to be reckoned with, and it had been under her father's and then Fergus' command. Highever also had a proper and formal militia. The Cousland militia, however, had consisted mostly of young men and women a couple years shy of the age for enlistment. They all shared an idealistic desire to serve…It had been mostly symbolic: they kept order at the town square during market days, hauled the occasional obnoxious drunkard off to the guard, helped elderly farmers with their carts, and chased naughty children poaching fruit out of orchards during harvest. But her younger self had taken her appointment very seriously and compensated for nervousness and inexperience with a need for absolute control.

"How are preparations for the Cousland militia's march to overtake Orlais?" Fergus had pestered her as he watched her annoy and eventually frustrate those under her draconian command enough that almost all of them quit.

_I suppose it wasn't that long ago—that Jayne still exists. Here I am, in over my head, and apparently I haven't learned much._

She caught Zevran looking back at her surreptitiously, only to see his head turn forward again, wordlessly.

 _But HE is certainly being difficult, too!_  she huffed.

 _We could have talked this out. There was no need for that behavior_ , she thought crossly.

_Fine. Let him sulk!_


	30. Chapter 30

Her thoughts shifted between righteous indignation and devastating insecurity. It didn't help that Zevran avoided her deliberately once they approached the Dalish encampment. When they reached the entrance, normally guarded by Mithra's guards, no one awaited them. The camp was oddly silent. She turned to her group.

"Go back to our camp— check on the others. I need to find Lanaya and inform her of what happened." Her eyes darted in the direction of the aravels. "Be ready for anything," she warned them.

"As you wish," Zevran said in a loud, unctuous manner.

She clenched her jaw and ignored him.

The aravels' windows were lit brightly, she noticed as she wandered towards them. She saw little activity and silence was pervasive.

"Where can I find Lanaya?" she asked a woman squatting before a fire. The woman would not look her in the eyes, but suggested she go to the Keeper's aravel. Jayne felt an unpleasant tug in her chest; the Keeper's aravel would not see its old master return.

As she approached the aravel she had stood outside of so often those last few days, she was able to discern voices inside. Drawing on her courage, she angled her fist to rap on the door. It swung open and none other than Mithra's stony face peered out at her.

 _Maferath's balls!_ she thought crossly. _Of all things I've imagined would come to pass tonight, you were the one I was actually hoping the least for! Damn you, Mithra!_ Her face clouded and she glared into the elf's eyes.

"Lanaya has been awaiting your arrival," Mithra declared, stepping outside and out of her way.

Inside she found a small crowd assembled. Lanaya sat at the very end, Sarel by her side. Jayne edged her way through a few elders she had seen around the fire on their first night at the camp. Glimpsing her, Lanaya rose.

"Warden," she called out. "It is done! The essence of the wolf's heart has banished all traces of cursed blood from the hunters."

All voices around them hushed.

_Did they realize at what cost?_

"I am afraid that I am the bearer of sad news," Jayne began, searching for the words she needed to convey her regret. "Keeper Zathrian…" her voice faded.

"We know," Lanaya said. "I felt it—a few of us did— as soon as he departed this world." She walked up to Jayne and clasped her hands. "We sensed no sorrow, no strife, or pain. He went in peace... Willingly... Didn't he?" she asked.

Jayne nodded.

"He did. He gave up his life to break the curse." It was not a lie.

They invited her to sit among them, the conversation picking up again. The elders asked her questions and pondered aloud the next course of action and the impending changes. Some light laughter erupted as Lanaya was occasionally still referred to as "First."

"It may take a while to undo a habit centuries old," a white-haired elf told her apologetically.

"I realize you are an elder, but while the habit may be centuries old, you most certainly are not!" she replied jovially to the man.

At one point in the conversation, Lanaya addressed her more seriously.

"As Keeper now, I will make it known officially: I hereby swear to uphold the terms of the ancient contract our people formed with the Grey Wardens."

The elders assembled before them nodded, approvingly.

"Call and we shall come," she said formally, " with great speed and purpose, and we shall strike at your foes. This, I swear."

Her statement was seconded by Sarel, who uttered a few words in Dalish, causing the others around them to cheer.

Jayne closed her eyes momentarily, exhaustion and relief washing over her.

_It is done._

_We have achieved what we have set out to do. The Grey Wardens have all their allies. Now we can finally call the Landsmeet._

"When will you be leaving us?" she heard Lanaya ask. Her eyes shot open and she encountered intrigued faces examining her. She scratched her cheek for a moment, gathering her thoughts.

"We had hoped to depart tomorrow. We do not have much time to resolve matters. The Blight won't be long now…But my companions…We may need a day to recover. We will be ready to go early morning, after tomorrow."

Lanaya listened.

"We will send scouts to our sister clans. We can rally more Dalish warriors to fight. They will be willing; many have already been displaced by the Darkspawn."

"Thank you. Once you have assembled your forces, head for Redcliffe. We will join the dwarves and the mages under the Arl's banner," she explained.

They went over a few more plans and she answered several more questions before sensing a lull in the conversation.

"I will take my leave now," she announced politely.

"One more thing, Jayne," Lanaya stopped her. "We will be moving our camp after tomorrow also— the forest is no longer a haven for us. The curse somehow seemed to keep Darkspawn at bay, but we are well aware that areas surrounding the forest are quickly becoming overrun and we do not wish to be swarmed."

"Move north…" Jayne began her well rehearsed words of advice.

"Yes, we will be sending our people farther north…but I wished to tell you of something else."

Jayne blinked.

"Keeper Zathrian was a powerful, ancient mage. The breaking of the curse and his peaceful passing are auspicious for us. We will be holding a ceremony tomorrow night— a ceremony to honor the memory of Zathrian, all those who suffered from this curse, and all of our loved ones who have passed on," she stated. "We wish to invite you to bless and remember your fallen with ours."

Jayne bowed her head, moved.

" Of course. Thank you, Keeper," Jayne acknowledged respectfully.

She was met with a wistful smile from the new leader and ally.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I always found it odd that Zathrian wasn't mourned more. Little is said about Zathrian's loss or the impact of his passing on the Dalish people (even if he was holding on to a centuries-old hatred)...I'm guessing it's because of game mechanics and to keep the story moving along (perhaps an example I should emulate? I feel I have Brecilian Forest tree branches growing out of my ears at this point... ;-) ). I thought our friends could use a moment of reflection before the storm that is the Landsmeet. Some introspection...and more tent time for our favorite duo, perrrrhaps?...I'm speaking of Alistair and Rune, of course... *Ahem* Thanks for reading!


	31. Chapter 31

Jayne debriefed them by the fire, a bowl filled with assorted blanched roots and boiled chunks of stringy meat on her lap. It tasted insipid and the sauce dripped thin and watery off her spoon; it mattered little. She ate ravenously. It was one of the stranger symptoms of her tainted blood- a disproportionately intense hunger normally plagued her. As she reported the events at the ruins and her meeting with Lanaya, she avoided going into the details regarding the Landsmeet; Alistair needed to be present for that. Of course, the moment he'd stumbled into the camp that evening, Wynne had taken him under her wing, fussing over him, putting him to bed and feeding him medicine. She risked a sideways glance at the woman, who cheerfully rubbed his armor clean. She couldn't help but smirk: that was one aspect of being king Alistair would warm up to very quickly: the pampering. Every once in a while, she glanced at Zevran, catching his profile, an indifferent expression over his features as he chewed his meal, sitting cross-legged on the ground.

 _Stubborn, stubborn, stubborn!_ she thought, peeved.

She let Morrigan, Oghren, and Zevran field any curiosity about their excursion.

"I am turning in," she announced, deliberately avoiding the elf's face. The prospect of sleeping alone, without his warmth, his voice murmuring in her ear, made her irritable.

 _But if it doesn't bother him, it doesn't bother me_ , she thought, bidding them good night and wandering morosely to her tent.

She stopped a few steps short, though. On a plot of grass, the blades flattened in a wide rectangle, was the outline of the floor of her tent.

Her non-existent tent.

She glanced around disoriented.

"Where is my tent?" she called out.

"Ermm, yes…About that…Bodhan needs to have a word with you," Leliana informed her without looking up.

She realized she hadn't seen the dwarf and his son at all since her return. She had presumed they were off in their own tent, or by the Dalish's stables, tending to his mare.

_Come to think of it, I haven't seen Rune, either._

"Where is Rune?" she inquired loudly.

Wynne scrubbed Alistair's greaves with determination.

"He was somewhat indisposed this morning…" she announced in between vigorous polishing strokes.

"What do you mean?" she asked anxiously. "Where is he?"

"After you left…" Wynne began, keeping her eyes focused on her task. "He was a bit…ill."

Jayne's eyes widened.

"What do you mean ill? Is he alright?" she cried impatiently.

"He is fine, dear!" She finally stopped her cleaning to reassure her. "I gave him lots of water —with elfroot extract. It's mild, mild medicine that won't hurt children or animals. It helps settle the stomach. He's with Sandal and Bodhan down the trail…"

She rushed to the trail head, affection for the Mabari overwhelming her.

 _He's all I have left of them._ The memories made her teary-eyed: her father setting down a squirming, puppy-sized Rune before her delighted eyes on the rug of their den at Highever, a playful Rune gnawing at Fergus' knuckles, sleeping soundly, his head tucked on her mother's lap, lending Oren support as he began to walk, his tiny chubby hand splayed over Rune's strong neck, and Oriana naughtily sneaking him morsels of food beneath the dinner table...

Before she'd even set foot on the trail, she bumped into the two dwarves making their way up. She noticed they carried each one the ends of a long strip of canvas. Drops of water spilled from it. To her profound relief, Rune trotted behind them.

"Warden!" he exclaimed, more out of panic than surprise.

"What's happening here?" she placed her hands on her hips. She noticed a thick scrubbing brush in Sandal's hand and a soapy bucket of water hanging from Bodhan's arm. They were both barefoot, their trousers rolled up to their knees. Rune sauntered over to her, nuzzling his nose against her legs and she crouched down to pet him, scrunching his soft, velvety ears in her hands. He did not seem like his usual energetic self, but his tail was wagging.

"Well," Bodhan cleared his throat, "we had a bit of a… mishap this morning." He placed the pail on the ground. Water sloshed sloppily over the rim. He tugged nervously at his beard. "You see, he…well…he ate some of the leftover beans from the breakfast pot and…was sick."

Jayne looked back at Rune, running her hands over his head.

"You gluttonous little nug!" she censured him affectionately.

He began licking her face. She crinkled her nose and smiled.

"Yes…Yes…" Bodhan continued. "We did not realize he was going to be so ill, or we would never have let him into your tent…"

Her hand stopped rubbing Rune and she stared at Bodhan.

"What do you mean?"

"I thought he was out of sorts because you'd left him at camp. If you ask me, I think he was just looking to feel comforted…I thought, 'But just let the poor animal in so he can rest among familiar things, smells…' We let him in…but it was the beans…You see…"

"Bodhan…" she pleaded.

"He had some loose bowel movements… and also threw up. All over the tent."

She shut her eyes.

_Maker help me._

Oghren burst out laughing in the background. She snapped her head around meaning to scold him for his callousness, failing to see what was so funny, when she caught several ill-concealed grins. Zevran had turned his face away completely and his back shook with laughter.

Jayne fumed.

"But don't worry, Warden!" Bodhan continued. "Your pack and bedroll were spared. My boy and I cleaned everything off and scrubbed the tent by the pond down there. If we leave it hanging out, it should be dry in a day…or so…maybe," he hesitated.

Everyone was laughing openly now.

"These beans are your crowning achievement, my friend," Zevran wiped the tears from his eyes as he slapped Oghren on the back.

She took a deep breath. It wasn't Bodhan's fault.

"Thank you for taking care of it…But…Where am I supposed to sleep now?" she asked him.

"You are welcome to share my tent," Wynne offered, pointedly.

"It'll probably be a tight fit in the elf's tent, but if you stack over each other horizontally there might be enough room, right?" Oghren elbowed a suddenly sour-faced Zevran.

He stood up, brushing his hands against each other, and plucked the bowl he'd been using off the ground.

"The Warden is welcome to my tent. I can sleep elsewhere," he announced, walking off to wash his utensils.

Despite her straight face, sadness tugged at her. Without another word, she followed him.

"So tell me about this Lady! What was she like?" Leliana attempted to change the subject around the campfire.

"There were no fancy shoes involved, if that's what you're hoping for," Morrigan told her.

"Sssh! I can't eavesdrop if you keep talkin'," she heard Oghren say.

This was followed by a loud thunk and a groan.

Zevran bent over the wash bucket, dunking his bowl into the soapy water.

"Truce?" she asked, approaching him.

"Of course. Whatever you command," he stated with dry politeness.

"Why are you behaving like this?"

"I am merely following your orders, Warden," he said seriously. "No more insolent Zevran here. That man is gone!" He gestured, swatting his hand in the air.

_You are being plenty insolent right now._

"Can we just stop this…argument?"

"Of course. Because now is nighttime, it's convenient to make up, no?" He plunked his fork and cup into the bucket.

She squinted at him.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"My dear," he leaned toward her, his amber eyes ablaze. "I know this song and dance quite well. It goes like this: no one has a problem inviting me to their bed, but showing up anywhere else in my company in daylight is another story, isn't it? I told you it would be more pleasant for everyone if our arrangement were confined to the privacy of the tent."

Another stinging stab.

_Our arrangement._

_An "arrangement."_

_That's all it was?_

She stood in stupefied silence.

"I…don't seem to follow…"

"Please, Warden. I am what you see. Zevran: elf, assassin, and now it seems you'd also add cretin to the list. But I cannot change, I will not change, and I apologize profusely if I embarrass you," he said with false obsequiousness.

"You don't embarrass me," Jayne said, indignantly.

He did not respond to her words and continued rinsing off his bowl.

"Can we talk about this?"

He continued to ignore her, dumping everything into the water with a splash.

"I am sorry," she stated.

At that, he stopped and appeared to be listening.

"I don't always handle all this responsibility with grace," she admitted. "This was a difficult mission for me. And I was very scared."

He spoke, without looking at her:

"What could you possibly be scared of? How was this any worse than going into the Deep Roads or…or into the Fade?"

"I thought Alistair was going to die," she confessed. "And it would have been my fault: my bad decision making. If you hadn't struck that werewolf…" her voice trailed off. He turned to face her. "It's not just because he's my friend," she explained, trying to articulate feelings she hadn't strung into words before. "He is Ferelden's only hope of averting a civil war if we survive this Blight. And he's the only other Gray Warden around to help me fight the Archdemon." She peered down at her hands, so rough and cracked. "It feels like too much sometimes…so when you and Oghren were joking around like that…I felt as if I had lost control. And I was afraid that if I lost control, everything would fall apart. I have a responsibility. I need to remain focused, aware, centered…or people die." She lifted her hand before he could speak. "I know it's my problem, not yours. I'm far from perfect. But I am trying hard. And I have no one to tell me how to do this. I am trying right now. I am sorry."

He pulled the bowl out of the water and set it in the empty bucket beside them to dry.

"I suppose we each have our own ways of dealing with fear. I…I prefer to have a good laugh. The more desperate the situation, the more brazen the jokes. It reminds me I am still alive," he told her.

She reached for his soapy hand.

"You are perfect just how you are," she said softly.

"Perfect in bed, maybe," he teased.

"No- Well...yes," she smiled. "But…everything. All of you," she insisted.

"Including my sharp wit and dashing irreverence, then?" he wondered coyly.

"If that's what we're calling bad puns, then toss the terrible singing in there as well!" she chuckled.

He finally cracked a smile. He raised her hand to his lips, as if he were going to kiss it, but blew soap suds into her face instead. They stood hand in hand in the flickering light, bits of conversation traveling back to them.

"Sten had some too!" Leliana exclaimed. "Do you want to know how I know?"

"No," Sten replied.

"Well, we were out on patrol, walking through the woods, when I saw him clench his fist, punch himself twice over the stomach, lean over to the right, throw up, and then stand upright again and continue walking as if nothing had happened!"

"I was carrying out my duties," Sten added uninterestedly, over more laughter.

Jayne examined Zevran's face, his downcast eyes veiled by his lashes.

"I am sorry too," he said slowly. He glanced back at the camp. "When I was in Antiva, I was often propositioned by those in power: princes, merchants, nobles… and often we would have a perfectly pleasant time, as long as I was discrete and gone in the morning. My ability not to take seriously things said in a moment of passion— promises, vows— was greatly appreciated. I did not begrudge a person who'd professed so much affection in bed only to then avoid me on the street later on. In some ways, it was more convenient that way, less of an entanglement…And I always preferred that fickleness to my tiresome share of those who would have liked to keep me as a pet and those who sought to change what they perceived as my…flaws," he smirked bitterly. "It was all just a diversion, something fun to do and pass the time between contracts…" He brushed his finger playfully down the bridge of her nose. "But you?… I don't think I would take it well if you were to…" He stopped. "Ah, but you are nothing like those nobles," he said, as if reprimanding himself. He caressed her face with the back of his hand. "You are not like anyone I have ever met."

The words were on the tip of her tongue and she had to make herself swallow them.

"Will you stay with me tonight?" she asked instead.

He furrowed his brow, pressing his lips together.

"Let me see if I understand: You are inviting me to spend the night with you…in MY tent?"

"Yes," she nodded. "And possibly tomorrow night too."

"Oh?" he feigned surprise. "And once you get your tent back?"

"Then I'll be inviting you to spend the night with me…in my tent."

"And I trust we will be having some very restful, quiet nights?" he asked suggestively.

She kissed his cheek.

"It doesn't matter what we are doing, as long as you are with me," she whispered.

He stared into her eyes, a sudden unguarded tenderness in his face. He cupped her face gently in his hands.

"You slay me with your sweetness, amora…" he murmured, drawing in closer for a kiss.

"Get a tent or get out of my way," Oghren's gruff voice startled them both, a pile of dirty bowls in his arms as they glanced down.

"Brasca, Oghren! You are in rare form today, dwarf!" Zevran chided him, annoyed.

Jayne walked with him back to the campfire, her hand firmly clasping his.


	32. Chapter 32

"Andraste have mercy…" Zevran mumbled as he stepped back into the small tent.

Jayne glanced up at him sheepishly: the entire contents of her pack were strewn across the tent, boots tossed in opposite corners, a damp towel lying across the bedroll, where she was sitting with a bowl of cold food. She followed his slightly crestfallen gaze as he assessed the extent of the mess, much like a general surveying the devastation across the field after battle. Among the many new things she had learned about him over the past few days was the fact that he was frightfully meticulous about his belongings and quarters. She had wandered into his small, clean tent to find a neatly packed bedroll and his well-organized pack, everything ready to be carried off at a moment's notice. She had only seen such efficient and tidy living conditions among the military.

"Did you fight the Archdemon in here already?" he wondered, stepping in and reaching for the forgotten towel with a look of horror.

"I'm sorry- I will clean it up…I had to sort through my pack for something clean to wear—my other clothes aren't dry yet. I hope you don't mind, but I just borrowed one of your shirts." She turned around to show him how the black tunic fit her. She and Zevran were approximately the same height, although the shirt's shoulders sagged loosely on her and the ungathered sleeves covered her knuckles. For a moment she thought his stunned silence signaled his disapproval until she felt herself thrown back against the bedroll and Zevran straddling her. He pinned her arms down and brushed his lips across her neck, kissing her languidly all the way down to the modest cleavage revealed by the shirt's trimmed keyhole neckline.

"You can't expect to do this and remain unscathed…"he murmured. She lifted her head to meet his mischievous eyes.

"Had I known I'd get this reaction, I would have ransacked your tent much earlier—" she teased.

"What do you expect? How can I contain myself? You wear my clothes… you end up looking more like me…And I'm so irresistible…" His lips parted in a sultry grin. She freed her arms and punched him on the chest lightly before hugging him around the neck and pulling him closer to her. As they kissed, his hand began to slide up her leg, caressing her skin beneath the tunic. As it wandered up, he stopped and gave her a mystified look.

"You aren't wearing anything beneath?"

It was her turn to give him a wicked grin. His eyes narrowed in amusement.

"So you planned to seduce me all along? I just played right into your plot?…"

She seized his shoulders and flipped him down onto the bedroll, covering him with her body.

"I have you exactly where I want you…" she whispered with a glint in her eye.

He chuckled.

"I surrender," he sighed with false resignation as he hitched up her tunic. "Do with me what you will, Warden…I am yours…"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a tiny chapter and it's a fluffy one...but I think they/you/me deserve a little fluff after all that commotion, no?...Dalish farewells coming up, some revelations are overdue...and then... it's off to Denerim. Thanks to everyone who supports this fic- not only do you have some damn fine literary tastes (*ahem...shamelessness*) you, most importantly, pay me a great kindness. *Bows respectfully*


	33. Chapter 33

"Ah, a Dalish celebration," Zevran said dourly. "Nothing says 'make merriment' better than assembling all your guests to reminisce on the massacre of your ancestors!"

"That's a bit unfair, don't you think?" Leliana chided him lightly, as they began to place anything they wouldn't be needing that evening into the middle of the camp, ready to be carried off the next day.

"Hardly, hardly," he muttered. "I look forward to sitting around the campfire and singing dirges with the others."

"What do you expect? It is a memorial service for their former Keeper," Leliana protested.

"My point exactly: all celebratory events observed by the Dalish are memorial services of one kind or another. I have never seen a people more enamored with their own tragedies." He continued, dramatically, "Happy Birthday! You were born on the same day our people were trounced at the battle of Our Gods Don't Care! Let's celebrate with a fast and a march through the swamp."

Leliana shook her head.

"That's a terrible attitude."

He waved her away and crouched down to strap his pack down tighter. Jayne crouched next to him, resting her chin on his shoulder.

"Please go with us tonight," she entreated him.

"What's in it for me?" he teased.

"It would make me very happy," she grinned.

"We don't have to go much farther than the tent for me to do that," he grinned back suggestively, arching an eyebrow at her. She pushed him over playfully so he lost his balance and toppled over sideways. She laughed as she helped him back up. She caught Wynne's disapproving stare as she exited Alistair's tent. Her smile faded and she remembered the woman's harsh words the previous day.

"Very well, then. I will go," he declared, oblivious to the reproachful looks they were receiving.

They spent most of the day preparing for their journey to Denerim and Jayne noticed the Dalish, too, were busy with their own preparations to depart the forest, dismantling their camps and loading their aravels. Soon the encampment would be clear, surrendered to the forest once more.

 _Never for long_ , she remarked, recalling the assortment of elven statues dispersed throughout the area, age-old landmarks. They were the witnesses of the long pilgrimages the elves performed throughout the year, every season. She hoped with all her heart that they would see their people return for another year. Perhaps it was her imagination or wishful thinking, but as she gazed at the trees sprawling in the distance, she thought perhaps the forest seemed less sinister. She stirred from her thoughts when she realized Zevran had been talking to her.

"Don't you think?" he asked. She looked at him peacefully.

She had no idea what he had been talking about.

"You weren't listening," he scolded her.

"I was thinking I'd like to come back here again, someday. I'd like to see how the forest is healing," she said simply. "It's a beautiful place." She turned to him. "Despite everything that happened, I leave it behind with some happy memories," she said earnestly, lifting her hand to caress his cheek. "Will you return with me?"

He tried to respond, but no sound came out, even as he tried to utter something coherent. She smiled at his flustered reaction.

For a reason she couldn't understand, for that brief moment, she felt hopeful.

 _Maybe it can be done_ , she inhaled.

* * *

Lanaya approached them, followed by a younger elf carrying an earthenware bowl filled with what seemed to be small wooden rectangles.

"I'll leave these with you," she explained.

"Are these name markers?" Leliana asked, peering into the bowl. Morrigan followed behind, curious.

"Yes," Lanaya confirmed, pleased. "They are made of the wood from this forest's oldest tree. Every year we tend to it, pruning the broken or sick branches. From those branches we then carve the name markers, which we place in a bonfire, in prayer, to remember our loved ones."

The young woman handed the bowl to Jayne.

"The smoke will carry your intentions," Lanaya explained. "Zathrian's passing has thinned the Veil enough for our wishes to pierce it, and go even farther, beyond the Veil, to where we believe all souls go…"

"What do we do?" Jayne asked.

"The Dalish believe that everyone undergoes two deaths: the first, when the actual, physical death occurs; the second when the person's name is uttered in this world for the last time. Write the names of the people you wish to remember, and say their names- so they may continue to exist here- before you return the markers to the bowl. Bring them to the celebration later on, so you may present them as an offering.

After they left, Jayne stood holding the bowl, staring at the smooth dark wood markers.

"I think the elf is going to need his own bowl for all the people he's done in," Oghren chuckled.

She sighed and presented him with the bowl.

"Take as many as you need," she said, a sudden somberness hitting them. She went around the camp offering its contents to each one of them, watching as Leliana took one, Alistair took another, and Wynne took a fistful. Morrigan scoffed until she noticed Jayne's serious expression and picked one marker out, resignedly. A reflective silence overcame the camp as each person carved names into the soft surface of the markers.

Jayne took the edge of her dagger and etched the names of her family members: Bryce, Eleanor, Fergus, Oriana, and Oren. Her hand shook as she wrote the "n" in Oren's name.

 _This is from the both of us, Rune._  She pet the Mabari's head tenderly.

She peered around her to find her companions in a kind of pensive trance. She took her markers, and hoping her voice wouldn't quaver, said each name before placing them back in the bowl. She walked to Leliana, who contemplated her marker. She lowered the bowl to her gently and Leliana sighed, kissing the marker, and whispering a name, very softly.

"My mother," she said, averting her eyes, as she dropped it into the bowl. Jayne nodded silently and moved to bend down to face Alistair.

"Duncan," he told her, locking his gaze with hers. Jayne smiled sadly. She wandered to Wynne, who reverently said several names before placing each of her many markers into the bowl.

"Friends who perished during the attacks at the Circle," she stated.

"Of course," Jayne stated reassuringly. Next was Oghren.

"Branka," he muttered, tossing it in quickly. He crossed his arms and leaned back silently.

She halted before Morrigan, who appeared to be agonizing over her choice. The others peered curiously at her. Jayne couldn't imagine she'd be mourning Flemeth.

"The Forest Spirit," Morrigan announced.

Alistair groaned derisively.

"I do regret her passing!" Morrigan retorted. "Such a senseless thing…"

Sten placed a marker in Qunari writing into the bowl.

"I do not know their names," he said. "So I wrote down, 'The family I killed.'"

 _That such a small bowl could feel so heavy,_  she thought.

Bodhan placed markers with the names of his parents, while Sandal placed one, in memory of a pet nug. Jayne squeezed his arm affectionately. She had no idea if it was allowed, but she wasn't about to tell him 'no.' She searched for Zevran, sitting farther away, staring at his two markers. She approached him and he glanced up warily. He uttered a name she didn't catch.

"My mother," he explained.

The second marker he clutched in his hand, hesitating to place it in the bowl. Jayne nodded at him encouragingly.

"Rinna," he said, offering no further explanation.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The saying about death occurring twice is not my idea- it's from an old proverb that is quoted, more recently, by Bansky and Eagleman (who actually argues it occurs three times, rather than two- he adds the actual burial to his definition). I don't know where the original proverb is from- I've heard conflicting things, but most of them seem to indicate Eastern Europe. If anyone knows, share your wisdom with me. I find it a fitting thought for the concept that those we loved and passed on remain alive in our memories and stories.


	34. Chapter 34

"It is a rare opportunity," Leliana pointed out. "One never expects to witness such ceremonies, much less participate in one," she whispered, obviously awed by the display before them: hundreds of lanterns lined the ground, guiding their way to a great bonfire.

"Unless you are Dalish. Then this is merely 'dinnertime'," Zevran offered irreverently.

Jayne carried the bowl in her arms, unsure of how to observe the Dalish rites. She had insisted they wear whatever formal garb they had, which at that point of their journey meant they all wore their armor, cleaned and polished for the occasion. As they approached the raring fire, Lanaya greeted them.

"Andaran atish'an!" she welcomed them.

Lanaya stood before them regally, in fine robes, her hair braided elegantly and Keeper's staff firmly ensconced in her hand. She remained alongside some of the camp's elders, receiving name markers she blessed before casting them into the fire. In the background they could hear animated conversation and songs played. The pungent odors of various spices wafted temptingly to them from several aravels. Jayne marveled over the fact a memorial could be anything but lugubrious, but before she could ask any questions about what they were supposed to be doing, Morrigan took the lead.

"Veilfire?" she wondered, pointing at the bonfire.

"Mixed in with the regular flames, yes," Lanaya indicated the flickering green sparks emanating from the pile of burning logs.

"I've never seen it before," Wynne mentioned with obvious curiosity. "It is something I'd only heard about. So does it take our name markers into the Fade?"

"No," Morrigan interrupted. "The fire will burn them…but the veilfire must have an effect, perhaps through the writing—"

Jayne felt herself struggling to remain patient as she observed the two mages drag Lanaya into a lively conversation on the mystical and scholarly propensities of veilfire. She stood stoically with the bowl, awaiting directions as the others ventured off to explore. One of the elders approached her.

"Here," he offered, inviting her closer to the flame. "Come bring your offering."

He, too, held a staff in his hands, but she realized his was for support rather than spell casting. His fine white hair tumbled down his back, tiny silver medallions hanging artfully from the ends. The man's face was gaunt and his skin reminded her of crinkled parchment, but his voice sounded strong and steady.

"Are these all yours?" he wondered, peering into her bowl.

She shook her head.

"Where did everyone else go, then?"

"They have gone off to join the celebrations," she explained. "Should I find them?"

"It's not necessary," the man explained, taking a marker from the bowl. He clasped it in his hand for a moment, reading out the name and then muttering a few words in Elvish, before casting it towards the center of the fire. He did this for each of the markers and she helped him with deciphering puzzling pronunciations or explaining what Sten's Qunari marker meant. She deliberately saved hers for last.

"These are the members of my family, who were killed," she told him, not exactly sure why.

The man placed the first marker in her hand.

"Repeat after me," he began.

He had her say each word slowly.

"Ame amin, halai lothi amin, noamin."

She recited it along with him, the best she could.

"Ame amin," he continued, encouragingly, "Halai lothi amin, noamin heruamin."

He took her wrist gently and helped her fling the marker, her father's, into the center of the bonfire, where it burned brightest.

"I am the one who can recount what we've lost. I am the one who will live on," he said, nodding. He pointed at another one of her markers. "Again," he prompted her.

By the time she cast her last marker—Oren's—she could recite the words by heart. She meant every word, and wanted to believe with all her heart that as the fire burned the wood, the veilfire would wondrously transform her writing and her words into a prayer that crossed the Fade. She lost track of how long she remained there, keeping her vigil. She was aware of others moving around her, casting out their own markers, hushed words uttered and offered, arriving and just as suddenly departing. The old man stood beside her reassuringly, gazing into the flames serenely. She turned to him.

"How do you say 'thank you' in Elvish?" she asked.

"Ma serannas," the man said graciously.

She repeated the phrase, nodding reverently.

She took her leave, wandering down towards the others, meeting up with Lanaya. Oghren and Alistair stood beside her, both gladly holding heaping bowls of steaming food.

"Jayne," she called out apologetically. "I ended up launching into a small lesson with your companions. Mages are often guilty of indulging such curiosities," she smiled.

"It's quite alright. One of your elders assisted me."

Lanaya's eyes turned back to the fire.

"Oh? Who?"

Jayne turned also, finding the area she had been standing in empty.

"He was right there," she pointed, suddenly uneasy.

"Are you sure?" Lenaya asked.

Jayne felt her mouth go dry. People came and went, but none lingered. The white haired elf was nowhere to be seen.

"It is not unusual for people to have visions—" Lenaya began.

"He's over there," Zevran interrupted crossly, approaching them. "In line for a flagon of something."

Lenaya peered over to where Zevran was pointing.

"Ah, it was Alinar!" she interjected sheepishly.

"Visions," Zevran mumbled as they wandered towards one of the aravels serving food. "You hardly had enough to drink yet…or inhaled sufficient bonfire fumes for that to happen. See what I mean about the Dalish? There's a hole in my sock! Oh, it must be a sign! Brasca!" he vented, rolling his eyes.

"I don't think she meant anything harmful by it. And it was a very moving ritual," she said.

Zevran received two bowls from an elven woman. He contemplated them perplexedly.

"I have no idea what this is," he stated cautiously, handing her a bowl.

They sat under a tree together, watching the fire in the nearby distance. She picked at her food.

"I never had a chance to do anything like this for them," she told him. "For my family," she clarified.

He swallowed the mouthful he'd been chewing.

"Do you think that helps? I believe the dead are far removed from any of our misery," he stated. "Or so, I hope."

"Yes, you  _should_  hope, given all the souls you've dispatched…" she ribbed him.

"Can you imagine?" His eyes widened. "It'd clog the Fade. I would have to hide behind Sten," he teased.

"I don't know if it helps them," she said, looking up at the starry sky. "But I think it helps those who stay behind. "Ame amin," she told him, "Halai lothi amin, noamin heruamin."

He arched an eyebrow, an impish side grin edging up the corner of his lips.

"Now… You speaking Elvish is doing strange things to me…" he said in a raspy voice.

She couldn't help smiling back.

"That means 'remove my clothes with haste and pleasure me right now,' if I am not mistaken," he mused, rubbing his chin.

She chuckled, raking slowly through her food with the spoon. She could feel his golden eyes upon her, observing her with care. She knew what he was doing. He was keeping her from withdrawing, from disappearing inside her thoughts, from the pain such memories evoked in her. And normally he would be right. But that night she felt light— lighter than she had in a long time.

"I think these rituals are for the living," she said. "For those of us who remain. To help us find some kind of resolution and peace," she explained. "I agree with you— the dead have passed on, hopefully beyond any pain, any sorrow. We are the ones who must come to terms with our losses. And I think these rituals may help."

He contemplated her pensively, his arms encircling his drawn-up legs.

"You know, there is an old Antivan saying," he began.

She snorted.

"Maker help us all!"

"No, no," he insisted. "This one is a very wise one," he explained. "It goes: Pilgrims' travels are less cumbersome when each pilgrim carries the same load."

"And what does that mean in this case?" she asked, knowing that it was futile to ponder his sayings too deeply.

"It means you bear a heavy load on your own. It would do you good to share it," he stated, edging closer to her. "You rarely speak of your family, except to acknowledge what transpired back in Highever."

Around them the Dalish engaged in animated conversations and shared meals. Faint music drifted down to where they sat. The lamps flickered reassuringly in the darkness. It was hard to imagine everything would be gone and bare the next morning. She leaned against the tree bark deep in thought as Zevran ate beside her. He was right—insightful, as he usually was.

 _It hurts too much to speak of them_. Yet, by not speaking of them she was tying their meanings, their entire existences, to an ending, to a moment of betrayal and death. They had been so much more, she remembered. Surely they deserved better than that.

"My sister-in-law was called Oriana," she said tentatively. "She was Antivan."

"So you've said," he told her gently. "Is that why you didn't like talking to me at first? My accent reminded you…"

She smiled at the recollection, her eyes welling up. She nodded.

"Yes. I could hear her voice in your inflections as you spoke." She paused, staring at the ground, remembering. "She was a lovely, beautiful woman—"

"That goes without saying, since she was Antivan…" he added.

"And she was very clever, very witty."

"An excellent choice of weapons, if you ask me."

"Fergus used to say that she captured his attention when she first entered the room, but that she captured his heart when she spoke to him later. They had been introduced by a common acquaintance, owing to Fergus' insistence, of course, and somehow he ended up talking about how he had a sister who was training as a soldier. She told him that she was impressed, for in Antiva, women did not ever train for battle."

"No, not a noble or wealthy merchant's daughter," Zevran agreed.

"So Fergus, in an attempt to fluster her, said something to the effect that he was surprised, for he had always heard Antivan women were dangerous."

"But it is the truth!"

"Well, Oriana had been passing him a saucer and teacup during their conversation and she said that Antivan women were only dangerous with words and poison." She stopped, recalling how Fergus would act out the frozen look he'd made as he was handed his beverage. "He turned to her and said, 'Should I be drinking this tea?' to which she sweetly replied, 'I heard Fereldan men can handle danger.' He always said he knew at that moment he'd found his match. Teatime became something of an inside joke with them..."

The darkness she'd held at bay began to flow once more, a wave that advanced further with each breath, crossing her shoreline.

"So tell me," Zevran asked, tilting his head towards her. She looked at him, fighting the sadness. "It sounds like the Couslands have a thing for Antivans," he surmised. "I'm worried that all you need is to hear the accent— any Antivan will do." He checked into her shoulder lightly.

She grinned, wiping the tears from her eyes.

"Only the handsome elven ones who are hired to assassinate me," she joked.

"That doesn't help at all. There are quite a few of those around, I am sure," he sulked.

"Let me amend that then: only the handsome elven ones who are hired to assassinate me… and then fail disgracefully."

"Ah! You assail me with words that ARE poison!" he cried, clutching at his chest. "How very Antivan of you!"

She put her bowl down and reached for his hand, needing to feel connected to him, grateful for his kindness hidden behind the playful banter. He clasped her hand back tightly and they sat together in silence.

"So who do you look more like? Your mother or your father?" he asked.

She took a deep breath and began to tell him about Bryce and Eleanor. She spoke at length, recalling humorous stories, advice dispensed, even quirks. Through it all, he listened, speaking only to ask a question or offer an observation. Around them the Dalish began to disperse. They had waved to Alistair, Wynne, Bodhan, and Sandal, who returned to the camp earlier.

"Look," Zevran had whispered mischievously to her as they waved them off, "Wynne and Bodhan are taking the boys to bed."

She shook her head, barely concealing her laughter. The bonfire still crackled, and she could see some Dalish and some members of their group still sitting before it, catching the occasional word from their muted conversations and the silvery strum of a lute. A sleepy-eyed Dalish girl stopped before them to collect their bowls and then wandered off mutely.

"Is Oghren singing, or has the Blight begun?" he leaned forward, examining the lingering group. The dwarf had attempted to sing a ballad in his gruff voice. No one else seemed to mind. She shifted her gaze to his amused face, filled with spirit and life. She ran her fingers through his soft, silken hair. He turned his eyes to her and blinked slowly.

"You're a good man, Zevran."

"…And you are finally hallucinating. How does the Fade look from there?" he kidded.

"It's true," she insisted.

"You do realize you've already successfully seduced me? It's a done deal, dear Warden. You don't have to sweet talk—"

"You're a good man who has had to do terrible things," she said.

He fell silent.

"We've all been dragged kicking and screaming into our circumstances," she declared, almost angrily.

"Ah, but such is life. It's what we do in the wake of the disaster that defines us, no?"

"I told you about the dead I carry," she said, the name he'd uttered earlier in the evening vexing her. She knew better than to be jealous of the dead, but she wanted to know who, among all those whose lives he'd trafficked in, had earned the rare distinction of becoming an assassin's faithful memory. "Won't you tell me yours?"

A stony expression clouded his eyes.

"You are referring to Rinna."

She nodded.

"What did you say earlier? About the pilgrims' loads? You, too, are hauling a heavy burden. Won't you share it with me?" she asked.

He rose abruptly, clapping his hands clean of grass and earth.

"Some burdens are meant to be carried by those who brought them upon themselves."

"Why?" she asked. "Why won't you trust me?"

He contemplated her wordlessly.

"Not for the reasons you think," he said eventually.

"How do you know what reasons I may—"

"Even I know some things are unforgivable." He turned away. "I'll be back at the camp," he announced, not facing her.

Jayne watched him walk towards the path, among the fading lanterns.

 _Unforgivable… by whom, Zevran?_  Her heart ached over his tone: it was a glimpse of what she suspected was the well disguised, unfathomable sadness he possessed deep within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the lack of updates in a while. I was assailed by an Inquisition-themed plot bunny that sank its fangs into my tibia...I needed the little break, but feel good and happy about taking this up again. Updates may be a bit slower than the usual 5-7 days I used to post chapters in, but it's because of RL busy stuff- not because I've lost interest in writing this fic. Thank you for reading and supporting this story. I positively maintain that my readers are the coolest, smartest, most irresistible people!


	35. Chapter 35

Jayne returned to their camp with Leliana, Morrigan, Oghren and Sten. By then, it was late and the only activity in the Dalish side of the camp had to do with dismantling and packing. The bonfire was being put out and doused gradually; she had caught brief snippets of conversation about how the Dalish collected the ashes afterwards, for ceremonial purposes. Back at their camp she stared at their packs, neatly arranged for departure the next morning, and the few things that still remained to be done: taking down the tents, transporting their belongings to the cart.

 _There won't be too many reprieves like this,_  she realized sadly.  _Who knows? Perhaps this is the last one._

She ducked into the tent and was relieved to make out Zevran's outline on the bedroll. The even, deep breaths indicated he was fast asleep. She piled her armor in a corner and slipped under the covers seeking his warmth. His back was turned to her, but she curled herself against him, folding her arm over him, burying her face near his neck. He stirred and said nothing, but he reached for her dangling hand and held it over his chest.

* * *

_The stars grew dimmer and disappeared so that the round full moon was the only source of brightness in the night sky. It followed her through the woods on the path to the Dalish camp. It mocked her in its watchfulness, she thought, confronting it angrily, only to see it, lonely eye, blink shut, plunging the world into darkness. A rumble resounded in the distance, deep and foreboding._

_"Ahead." She was ushered on. "Ahead."_

_A bonfire glowed at the end of the trail. Branches or hands, she couldn't say, clawed at her shoulders, hitching her hair, as she sought her way to the fire. But it wasn't real fire she noticed, approaching the clearing, disappointment overwhelming her. It flickered, shimmering as brilliantly as a gemstone, towering into the sky, but there was no warmth, no smoke._

_"Veilfire, to honor the dead and all that must be concealed. Fire is for the forging of armor and weapons, to cleanse our paths, to topple their cities. The world reforged, an age renewed,"_ discarnate lips uttered.

 _'It would draw me to it as if homeward bound,' she realized, fighting through the heaviness of the dream._ ' _Shut it away. Don't let it in_ ,'  _she insisted to herself._

" _They believed themselves gods…Creation the mere reflection of their dark desire. I rise: seize the fruits of your forbidden knowledge_ ,  _your just rewards,"_   _it rambled. It always rambled, sounding like fragmented, twisted scripture._

" _You made more sense when I couldn't understand you_ ," she said into the darkness. " _At least when I believed you mysterious, I did not grasp the extent of your madness."_

_The sky opened its moon eye again, and the air shifted, as if the darkness itself slithered, windy scales brushing against her face. When it settled, she was still before the veilfire, as it burned silently, intensely. Through the other side she could see them all, standing in line, dazedly glancing around, as if wondering where they were._

_"The fallen will cross—"_ it began.

_"It's a kindness you offer yourself, then. We will not fall. We come for you," she threatened._

_"We come for you," it echoed ominously._

_"Come, then!" she hissed boldly. "Let this be your nightmare, not mine."_

_The treacherous sky blinked, ablaze with hundreds of encrusted, starry eyes. The voice singsonged, reciting a memorized past crystalized into forgotten, lost legend. When she lifted her eyes again, the others had disappeared. A man and a woman stood across from her, both huddled together, exchanging confidences, their conversation unintelligible. She strained her neck to see across the flame. It was Zevran, peering intensely at something in his hand. Beside him, a woman, her face shadowy, clasped his arm, resting her head, as if disconsolate, against his shoulder. Both stared at what he held in his cupped hands._

_"The fallen will cross," Zevran said solemnly, releasing what he'd sheltered in his palms into the fire._

_It landed flatly, scattering ashes and a rash of sparks into the night: she could make out the shape of a marker._

_Inscribed upon it was her name._

She screamed. Again and again.

* * *

She opened her eyes, her hair tangled over her sweaty forehead. She discovered herself sitting up in the bedroll and Zevran holding her back, encircling her torso so that her arms were firmly pinned to her sides.

"Jayne!"

It was Alistair's voice she heard first. Her shrieks had been loud enough to rouse the entire camp, apparently, as she watched Wynne crawl inside the tent and heard concerned voices speaking outside.

"It was an especially bad one," Alistair turned to explain at the tent's opening.

She gulped for breath, Wynne's hand sweeping her hair off her face.

"Alistair," she stated breathlessly. "He's coming. He told me himself."

The voices outside became hushed.

"It's all right now," Wynne whispered, wiping her feverish face with a cloth drenched in cool water. She seized her wrist and a familiar prickling sensation spread over her skin where she was touching her. "Breathe, dear," she ordered calmly. She turned to Alistair. "Bring my pack here, please."

"Is there anything we can do?" she heard Leliana's voice.

"Go back to sleep," Wynne told them plainly. "It was a bad dream," she said. "But now it's over."

Jayne realized she was shivering.

"You can let her go," she said to Zevran.

He released her, but remained beside her, observing them helplessly. After a few moments, Wynne steered her back under the covers, adjusting her pillow, and keeping a firm hand on her wrist. Alistair's head emerged through the tent's opening again and he pushed Wynne's pack across the ground in her direction. Deftly, she reached beneath the flap, pulling out a small, cobalt blue bottle, shaking it vigorously before reaching for her canteen and pouring some of the liquid inside it. She moved quickly and efficiently, her hand, when not occupied, always finding its way back to her wrist.

"Drink," she directed, offering her the canteen. "As much as you can— this will ease your nerves a bit." Jayne tilted the canteen back, tasting the murky water washing over her tongue.

"Alistair," she called out once more, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Did you hear it, too?"

Alistair shifted uneasily under their gazes.

"Every night, Jayne," he admitted. "But, no different than the usual," he added cautiously.

"He spoke to me," she declared. "He said he was coming. That the fallen would cross over the Fade… There was a bonfire…and you were all there, too," she said, her eyes settling over a silent Zevran.

"I don't deny that the Taint affords us a connection to the Archdemon, especially in our dreams," he continued warily. "But it consists of glimpses, jumbled images—a kind of eavesdropping, if you will. The connection is not that direct," he said. "And believe me, I have that on excellent authority. I was scared witless by my dreams after the Joining."

"I know what I saw and heard," she insisted stubbornly.

"What did he say?" Alistair was humoring her, she could tell.

"He said he was coming," she repeated. "He talked about the magisters in the Black City."

"What else?"

"He went on about veilfire for the dead…and how the cities would burn."

"Any indication as to where he would be emerging from?"

She shook her head.

"Where was he? What was he doing?"

"He wasn't…" she hesitated. "He was there, but it was different…"

"How so?"

Wynne finally removed her hand and capped the canteen for her.

"He was…everywhere. The night…His eye was the moon…" her voice trailed off.

"Is it possible that what you experienced was not a vision…but a nightmare?" he suggested.

She stiffened. The thought had not occurred to her since the Archdemon slipped into her dreams uninvited so often. She covered her eyes with her arm.

_And now I do his work for him._

"I don't know," she acknowledged.

"I do," Alistair assured her. "And I would have sensed something as well if he were stirring like that."

It had been real, to her.

Wynne pat her hand comfortingly. "Get some rest now. Your pulse is back to normal." She glanced at Zevran mildly. "You, too."

Alistair and Wynne left and they found themselves alone once more. She stared at the tent ceiling, hearing him rustle in the dark. He grasped the edge of the blanket and slipped under the covers.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Must have been unpleasant."

"Not as unpleasant as it was for you," he told her, concernedly.

"What happened?" She turned her head towards him.

"You sat up and you were screaming— you wouldn't stop and I couldn't wake you up," he told her.

"I dreamed I had died," she whispered, still dazed.

He began to hush her, shooing her words away with his own, spoken hurriedly, a blessing of sorts in Antivan, as he pulled her against him in a sheltering embrace.

"I had a conversation with the Archdemon, I even taunted him, but the part that broke me was seeing my own name on a marker," she realized, cracking a bitter grin.

She did not dare tell him that he had been the one to cast her marker into the fire, but the ghostly woman she saw beside him would not fade from her memory.

"It was a bad dream," he consoled her. "Alistair even said—"

"She was there," she told him.

"Who?"

"Rinna." She was sure of it.

Again, he tensed, but she could no longer hold back.

"I thought she was a child at first, when you said her name. I don't know… Remember how you said you drew the line at taking contracts on children? How you hate blind bids? I believed she was the one mark that weighed heaviest on your conscience…But she wasn't a child, was she?"

She could hear him swallow tensely.

"Tell me, Zevran," she squeezed his arm, pleadingly.

"You shared your bed with enough evil for one night," he said. "Another time."

"Tell me," she insisted, not relenting.

"Very well."

He sighed deeply, raising his hands to his face and rubbing it tiredly.

"Rinna was not a child. You were wrong about that."

She lay back.

"But she was killed," he revealed, his voice distant. "She was brutally murdered, even as she pleaded for her life, even as she called out my name."

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, shuddering. "I think I understand what—"

He let out a chilling, scornful laugh.

"No, you don't. You can't and won't. You see, you were right about one thing regarding Rinna: she is the mark that weighs the heaviest on my conscience."


	36. Chapter 36

"There is a reason I accepted this mission in Ferelden, far away from home, and it had nothing to do with any thought that I might leave the Crows. Meeting you, after all, was quite an accident," Zevran revealed. "My last mission before this one… did not end well."

How many times before had they exchanged stories just like that, under the cover and complicity of night, huddled close to each other? Except she knew this time there would be no boisterous dashes through Antiva City, one of his capers filled with thrills and adventure. This would not be about some aborted assassination plot turned into frantic escape. It would not be a tale of bravado filled with self-congratulatory remarks and bragging of combative heroics. No comical characters or boozy interludes. She barely recognized this storyteller— so serious and somber— a hard edge to his voice.

"What happened?" she urged him on, despite her trepidations.

"You must realize that until that day I was cocky and arrogant. I was the best Crow in Antiva, I believed, and I bragged of my conquests often…both as an assassin and lover."

Jayne turned towards his inky silhouette.

"And then?"

"One of the Crow masters grew tired of my boasting. My bid for an incredibly difficult mark was accepted, much to my surprise: a wealthy merchant with many guards and completely silent," he remembered. "Taliesen agreed to be part of my team, as well as an elven lass named Rinna." His tone changed when he mentioned her name, yielding to a greater, concealed emotion. "She was…a marvel. Tough, smooth, wicked. Eyes that gleamed like justice." He stopped and took a deep breath. "Everything I  _thought_  I desired."

A twinge of sadness overcame her as she realized the meaning of his words.

"You fell in love."

"Rinna was special," he admitted. "I had closed off my heart, I thought, but she touched something within me. It frightened me."

 _I know_ , she thought.  _This fear I recognize._ It fluttered within her, whenever she took stock of what a constant he had become in her thoughts.

"When Taliesen revealed to me that Rinna had accepted a bribe from the merchant, told him of our plan, I readily agreed that she needed to pay the price and allowed Taliesen to kill her," he said bluntly. "Rinna begged me not to. On her knees, with tears in her eyes, she told me that she loved me and had not betrayed us. I laughed in her face and said that even if it were true, I didn't care."

"But it wasn't true," she whispered.

"I convinced myself it was," he replied dryly. "Taliesen cut her throat and I watched her bleed as she stared up at me. I spat on her for betraying the Crows. When Taliesen and I finally assassinated the merchant, we found the true source of his information. Rinna had not betrayed us after all…" He fell silent.

"I'm so sorry," she offered weakly.

"I…wanted to tell the Crows what we had done, our mistake. Taliesen convinced me not to. He said it would be a foolish waste. So we reported that Rinna had died in the attempt."

She could see his shadowy outline shake its head.

"We needn't have bothered. The Crows knew what we had done. The master who disliked me told me so to my face. He said the Crows knew…and they didn't care. And one day my turn would come."

"Why would he do that?"

"To rub it in my face, perhaps," he sneered. "That I was nothing. That she was nothing."

They remained in a leaden silence before he spoke again.

"You once asked why I wanted to leave the Crows. In truth, what I wanted was to die. What better way than to throw myself at one of the fabled Grey Wardens?"

He leaned forward, arms crossed, staring ahead.

"And then…this happened. And here I am." Neither one ventured forth another word, the revelation of what had occurred still swirling between them. He finally took in another deep breath before adding, "I can be gone before morning, if you wish."

She could not reconcile what she had heard with what she knew.

"Do you still want to die?" Jayne asked faintly.

He pondered her question for a moment before replying.

"No. I don't. But…No longer will I seek to survive at any cost."

"What do you mean?"

"It is something I learned these past few months: having something you are willing to die for makes living worthwhile," he revealed, finally turning towards her. A gentleness surfaced in his voice. "I have watched you hurl yourself into bands of Darkspawn, charge ogres head on, chase demons in the Fade…At first I thought I understood: this woman has a death wish…Who does that? Who goes into the bowels of the earth to root out a Blight? Who in her right mind would cast herself like that, so fearlessly, into such peril?" She could hear the slight disbelief in his voice. "I believed that like me, you wanted to die…But then I understood, slowly, that you fight the way you fight because you want to  _live_. With every strike, every lunge, you reaffirm your purpose. You must live. Not only for yourself, but for others," he told her. "And oddly enough… that is something worth dying for," he concluded pensively. "Look at me. I was loyal to the Crows. I had been willing to die for them. And why? Because I believed in them? Because of what they stood for?" he said mockingly. "It was because I was scared. It was because I was told that it was something I was supposed to do, unquestioningly. I let Rinna die because I was frightened, because I thought I'd be implicated, that my loyalty would be questioned and I would be the one killed instead. I always believed I was better and more fortunate than my marks because I was the one who lived on. But merely remaining alive isn't enough. I betrayed her. I let fear blind me and I committed a crime against someone I loved."

Again that pang, a slowly-spreading poison, she thought bitterly.

 _I will not be jealous of a dead woman_ , _one who died so miserably,_  she commanded herself.  _Even if he can say he loved her with a candor he'll likely never possess when speaking of me._

"Never again, Warden," he said determinedly. "I have changed since I've met you. It's no longer the loss of my own life I fear…"

"Zevran." She rallied her thoughts through all the emotions. "My father used to say something I believe is true."

"What is that?" he asked.

"He said that people don't ever change. To expect them to do so is like… expecting an apple orchard to yield pears; it is unreasonable… and unfair."

They said nothing to each other for a few moments.

"I see."

She was caught off guard by the somberness in his voice as he pushed himself up from the bedroll.

"I understand, Warden," he stated wistfully, moving towards the tent flap.

Her eyes widened in alarm. He had misinterpreted her words.

"Remember what I said earlier?" she added hurriedly. He pulled on his shirt and grabbed his boots. "I meant it."

He paused, unsure.

"I don't—"

"You are a good man, Zevran. You can't change into something you already are. My father always said that. Courage, valor, character…those are things that have to be nurtured, coaxed, and taught. But the seeds must have already been planted there, in each person, waiting to germinate. When people believe they have changed, all they have done is honor a characteristic of theirs that remained untended…perhaps even dormant. You cannot create something from nothing. Even mages agree on that."

He remained still, his head hanging low.

"You are a good man," she insisted almost pleadingly. "I am sorry for what happened to Rinna. She did not deserve it. And neither did you." It pained her to see him so downhearted. "I don't think any punishment could match what you have already put yourself through. She was set up to appear guilty and you were manipulated. That much is clear."

"But I did not stop it."

"And you must live with that," she told him, her voice firm. "Just like I must live with the fact I couldn't stop Howe."

"It is different. You were betrayed."

"So were you."

He drew in a sharp breath.

"We can all drive each other mad with our what-ifs: I know Alistair lies awake at night wondering what we could have done differently that night at Ostagar and whether any of the possible scenarios would have saved Duncan and Cailan. Leliana regrets her misplaced trust in Marjolaine and berates herself for not suspecting her intentions earlier…and I bet Oghren probably wonders if he could have said anything to stop Branka from her death march into the Deep Roads…"

"Unlikely," Zevran snorted lightly. "He probably drove her into the Deep Roads in the first place…" he muttered.

_That's right. Come back to yourself._

"We have to live with the consequences of our actions. I think that in itself should convince us to be more forgiving…including of ourselves," she said.

Zevran dropped his boots and sat back down on the edge of the bedroll by her feet. He buried his head in his folded arms nested over his knees for a while. She lifted her hand and placed it gingerly over his shoulder. He did not flinch at her touch and she ventured to caress him, stroking his arm reassuringly.

"It…feels good to speak of it to someone. I swore I never would." He raised his head. "Whatever it is I sought by leaving Antiva, I think I have found it." He looked at her, pensively. "I owe you a great deal."

"I—" she began, leaning over and touching his arm gently.  _No. Not now. Not in the wake of a lost love._ "I'm glad to have you with me."

"Despite all warnings to do otherwise?" he smiled affectionately.

"Come," she pat his side of the bedroll. He crawled over her, tumbling by her side, tiredly. She heard him chuckle at last as she immediately edged closer, strapping her arm firmly across his chest, hooking her leg over his, her cheek resting on his shoulder. Normally he would have teased her about it, said something along the lines of "Reporting for duty!" A hazy warmth washed over her; whatever Wynne had dispensed began to take a hold over her. As her eyes flickered, his lips brushed the top of her forehead.

"Sleep,  _amora,_ " she heard him whisper, as she faded into a heavy slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Much of the dialogue of the ill-fated final mission is straight from the game.


	37. Chapter 37

A pale sunrise greeted them as they assembled to depart the forest. Jayne hauled a pack over her back, stumbling slightly at the sudden shift in her balance. Some of the others were still collapsing their tents. Oghren banged a spoon against the rim of his pot.

"Last call for porridge," he announced. "And then I'm dumping it all out."

"Sten and Morrigan went ahead with Bodhan to prepare the cart," Alistair informed her.

"Good, because I don't want to have to haul this pot myself all the way to Denerim," Oghren quipped behind them.

Sandal sat by the packs in his cloak, Rune stationed beside him, alert, tail wagging. She gave them both a shrewd grin; she was quite certain Sandal was surreptitiously sneaking Rune a treat.

_Perhaps we should be making you king, Rune. You have a knack for getting people to do what you want: Alistair sharing his bedroll with you and Sandal feeding you scraps on demand…_

In the nearby distance, the creaks and groans of aravels rolling over the uneven terrain echoed back to them. Bands of Dalish crossed their camp, en route to the main road several miles west of where they were. In full armor and geared with swords, bows, and daggers, they nodded in acknowledgement of them before disappearing into the woods ahead.

"Dareth shiral," several of them would call out, raising a hand.

A loud flapping startled her and she turned to see Zevran shaking out the tent. "I found crumbs in my tent," he said loudly, to no one in particular. "Crumbs! Crumbs attract vermin!" he cried.

"Does he do laundry, too?" Leliana snickered next to her.

"If you let Rune inside, he would take care of the crumbs," she called out.

"I believe your tent feels _very_ differently about that," he accused.

"Or you could grow a beard," Oghren teased. "My beard catches all the crumbs before they hit the bedroll," he chuckled.

"I'll be more careful," she promised, placing her pack down and wandering over to him.

She seized one of the edges of the canvas and helped him shake it, watching guiltily as more crumbs, pebbles, dirt, leaves, and sand flew off into the air.

"I won't hold my breath, my dear Warden," he said. "Apparently, people can't change," he winked slyly.

"Grey Wardens!" she heard behind them.

She whirled around and found Lanaya standing at the entrance of their dismantled camp. She was accompanied by Mithra and two other Dalish guards.

"There are a few matters to discuss before we depart," Lanaya explained once she and Alistair had walked over.

They confirmed plans they had previously outlined- where to meet, send messengers, and the contingency plan should no word come from them.

"Part of our clan is headed north— they go with our elders, to seek aid from other clans. We are sure they will heed the call. They will continue north, until word that the danger has passed comes," she explained.

Jayne looked down at her boots uncomfortably.

_When the danger has passed…_

"What is it Warden?" Lanaya asked.

She raised her eyes, meeting Alistair's gaze.

"It is just hard to imagine…When it is over."

"It will be," Lanaya stated simply. "We will fight alongside you and it will be," she assured her, placing a hand on her arm.

"We will send word once we reach Denerim, then," Alistair continued.

"There is one more thing," Lanaya added, before they turned away again.

She reached into her cloak.

"As we were raking through the coals, collecting the ashes of last night's fire, we found something…And we are quite sure it must belong to one of you." She opened her hand to reveal a wooden marker, its back singed black and split. "It does not happen often," she said in a contemplative voice, "but it does happen."

"It didn't burn up?" Alistair wondered.

"There are only two reasons why it wouldn't," Lanaya explained. "The first is if a soul's passing was especially filled with turmoil and there was any lingering anger or resentment…in that case, the offering may have been rejected." All three stared at the back of the marker, uneasily. "I must add, though, that such a reason is exceedingly rare. A soul that crosses successfully does not harbor such close ties to the past."

Jayne could feel her heart beating in her throat.

 _It's Rinna's marker,_ she thought apprehensively. _How can I tell him? It'll devastate him even further._

"The second reason this might happen is because…the soul it was intended for hasn't passed."

Alistair and Jayne exchanged alarmed looks. Lanaya turned the marker over gingerly, wiping streaks of ash off the surface.

"Here," she stated, handing the marker to them, unsure as to whose hand she should place it in.

Across the smooth surface was the etched name in short, choppy scratches.

 _Fergus_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- I thought this chapter would be an appropriate one. It is that time of the year for rebirths and resurrection, when the northern hemisphere performs the unimaginable, recovering from a long, icy slumber. Happy Easter to all celebrating. And happy spring to everyone: may you find in the season a fulfillment of a promise, of hope, and renewal!


	38. Chapter 38

"It wouldn't be a lengthy detour," Zevran told Jayne that evening, the tents pitched in a small clearing off the backroad they had taken en route to Redcliffe. "A day or two at the most," he suggested.

She peered down at the marker. It had haunted her since they'd left the Brecilian Forest. It kept her mind occupied from the eeriness of the desolate roads. She hadn't liked the emptiness and quietness. They had been on the lookout for the usual: bands of opportunistic bandits, groups of fleeing refugees, the occasional squad on a headhunting mission and even the lonely wagon of a merchant. Even the absence of Darkspawn was unnerving. The further south they moved, the more she expected them to surface from beneath the ground to ambush them, imagining them swarming forth as they had at Ostagar, endless pinpoints of flame ready to engage in battle. She regretted they hadn't just gone to Denerim and met the Arl there, but Alistair was right: they needed to enter the city beneath the Arl's banner, under his protection, publicly and under the auspices of a very visible Landsmeet. To venture into the city alone would be a futile provocation, one that would likely result in their swift imprisonment, in the best case.

She caressed the surface of the marker, its edges soft and crumbly as coal.

"If we survive," she said, seeking Zevran's amber eyes, "I will."

"I don't understand why you don't just settle the matter. It's driving you to distraction," he chided her.

"I don't have any reason for believing this is true," she told him. "From all accounts, Fergus and our soldiers were ambushed by Howe and Loghain's men. I am sure their orders were clear; they knew whom to target. His survival sounds quite impossible, you must admit, and if at all managed, would not be kept under wraps for this long."

If he were alive, he would have found a way to let her know. He had to be dead. She couldn't believe otherwise, she repeated to herself sternly. To believe otherwise was to hope, and hope was weak and scarce as it was. She refused to do such a thing to herself: to even consider the possibility that Fergus was alive. The pain, if it proved false, would be too great.

 _Lost twice. I cannot take it. Not now, not like this,_ she reasoned, contemplating the marker before shoving it away into a compartment inside her pack.

Her fingers brushed over the dry petals of the flower the Lady had given her.

 _No matter how harsh or cruel the winter, spring always comes_ , she remembered the Lady's parting words. She caressed the withering petals.

"Warden," Zevran called to her, watching her fuss with her pack, avoiding any further conversation on the matter.

She turned her eyes up to him, bracing herself for another tug of war with the persistent elf.

"Whenever you are ready to look for Fergus, I'll come with you," he said seriously.

She couldn't help smiling at his determined expression.

* * *

 

The village of Redcliffe appeared as they crested the hill. The old windmill greeted them, its blades black against the setting sun and broad smoky sky as the forges worked overtime. The thatched roofs and timber framed homes blended in unremarkably with each other, their drabness contrasting with the hillside. A heaviness weighed upon the village, already battered harshly in the year's previous attack. The castle loomed ominously in the background, its flags and gonfalons snapping and whipping in the wind. She observed Alistair contemplate his former home forlornly.

"Maker, the people do not deserve this." His eyes scanned the gloomy village.

Redcliffe appeared to have some activity, but she noticed people moved about silently, as if preoccupied. She had returned briefly, almost two months previously, to help Sten locate his sword. Redcliffe had remained in disrepair from the attacks, but despite everything, there appeared to be a verve in the village back then, a restlessness she could only associate with a desire to move forward, to rebuild. Perhaps the uncertainty of a Blight had dulled that out of the already battle weary villagers.

They made their way with little fanfare towards the castle, a messenger having been dispatched from the gates on horseback to notify the Arl's steward.

Despite the heaviness in the air, she caught glimmers of normalcy: a woman sweeping her stoop, a group of children playing a tagging game in one of the common yards among some houses, and a party of elderly men conversing in lively tones while resting their tankards over barrels in front of one of the taverns. Throughout the village, lanterns and torches were being lit in the twilight.

"It will be a welcome reprieve not to have to sleep in a tent tonight," Wynne sighed, as they crossed the imposing bridge leading to the castle.

Jayne felt an unpleasant shiver run up her spine as she walked towards the  courtyard and the staircase leading to the castle's front entrance. How many undead had she battled past there, until the steps glistened in murky blood? The guards at the gate immediately saluted them.

"Grey Wardens!" they called, stepping aside to allow them passage into the yard. Inside, all activity halted as they wandered towards the steps. At the top stood the Arl, the Arlessa, and the Arl's brother, Teagan Guerrin. Her eyes searched the modest crowd assembled to greet them looking for one particular little face. But she shouldn't have worried; bursting out from between his father and his mother's fussy dress, the red-haired freckled face of Connor appeared, radiantly smiling.

"JAYNE!" he cried, racing to her, arms spread out widely.

"Here comes the competition," Zevran grumbled behind her.

"I know. I've known him all his life, I helped save him too, and I might as well be a bowl of chopped liver," Alistair muttered between his teeth, watching the boy speed down the steps.

Connor flung himself into Jayne's outstretched arms. She gave him a warm hug, patting his small, delicate frame as he clung to her heavy armor.

"My father told me we are traveling to Denerim together!" he said delightedly, barely able to seize her gloved hand between his slight one.

Jayne smiled politely as she reached the top of the steps, greeting the Arl and his family.

"We are relieved you have arrived within the time frame you had given us," the Arl stated, after they had exchanged greetings. "A couple more days and we would have been forced to make our way to Denerim without you," he explained. "How soon can you and your allies be ready to depart?" he wondered, ushering them towards the main hall's entrance.

She glanced at Alistair.

"We feel there is little time to waste. Would tomorrow be too soon?"

"We are ready when you are," the Arl insisted.

"After tomorrow, perhaps?" the Arlessa interrupted. "Since we are relocating to Denerim, after all," she sniffed.

The Arl shot her a disconcerted glance.

"Relocating to Denerim?" Alistair asked, expressing surprise.

"Yes," the Arl offered with a tight grin. "But get settled first. There will be time for us to talk afterwards." He glanced at the the Arlessa again. "Isolde?"

The woman nodded and stepped forward, signaling to her servants.

"Take their belongings to the third floor of the eastern wing of the castle," she explained. She cast a disdainful glance towards Sten. "The Qunari, the elf, and the dwarves will be lodged above the carriage house by the stable," she informed them hastily.

Their entire party bristled at her dismissive tone. Jayne knew the woman was impossible. She learned that when they fought to save Redcliffe, but she hadn't expected new incidents to add to her repertoire so promptly.

"My allies and I have much to discuss; we'd like to be lodged in proximity to each other," Jayne stated in an overly polite manner.

The Arl shot his wife an embarrassed look.

"I think that can be managed, can't it my love?"

She and Alistair exchanged knowing glances.

 _She leads him by the balls_ , they'd both agreed one drunken night when they uncharacteristically engaged in some very gossipy and catty commentary. _She has the gift of bringing that spitefulness out in people_ , Jayne frowned.

"I wish it were that simple," the Arlessa stated in a strained tone. "Unfortunately, repairs to the castle haven't been completed and we are somewhat limited in the rooms we have to offer our guests." She signaled the servants to resume their activity of shuttling their belongings.

 _Hardly!_ Jayne assessed the tidy and elegant castle hall shrewdly. _No, my lady. This Qunari and this elf both fought for your son, for your husband, and for these people. They will not be stashed away like something unpleasant and unwanted because of your prejudices,_ she thought angrily.

"Then all of us would be glad to stay in your carriage house," Jayne continued, calling her bluff. "It is still infinitely better than the nights we've spent on the ground at camp, right?" she shot her group a rallying glance.

They stared back at her wordlessly. An impasse had been reached, and everyone around them turned their heads towards the Arlessa now, to see what she would say, including the servants, standing frozen, unsure of where to go with their packs and belongings. The Arlessa smiled uncomfortably.

"I am afraid we wouldn't have enough rooms to ensure your comfort…"

"But I want Jayne to be close by—" Connor whined.

The Arl cleared his throat, a cautious glint in his eye.

"I am sure we can find space for all in the castle," he stated with a pointed glare at his wife. He turned to them and continued, more amiably, "You will simply have to excuse us for any less-than-ideal conditions, which I am sure you will, as you are familiar with the recent circumstances."

"Of course! Of course!" The Arlessa tried to smile, with exaggerated grace. "Third floor," she ordered the servants, once again, gesturing towards the staircase. "And have Manon make up two more rooms…" she hesitated and turned to Jayne once more. "Will the _Mabari_ be needing his own quarters, too?" she asked in a cloyingly sweet tone.

Jayne felt Alistair's hand shoot out to gently grasp her arm as the blood rose to her face. Miraculously, it was Bodhan who intervened and prevented a diplomatic disaster.

"Madam Arlessa, my boy and I would prefer to stay close to our mare and our wagon. We'll gladly remain in the carriage house." He swiftly turned to Jayne. "And Rune is welcome to remain with us, as he is quite used to it."

The Arlessa gave him a tight-lipped grin before turning back towards the castle, her skirts swishing noisily around her. "Please join us for the farewell repast we had planned with some dear friends before our departure, once you are settled in your rooms," she announced. "Just give me a moment to request more place settings at the table…"

They assembled in a large waiting room off the foyer, awaiting directions from the staff, as the Arl and Arlessa left them momentarily. Teagan approached her and Alistair apologetically.

"Please forgive us for the confusion—it's been a very hectic few days…an uneasy transition. My brother will update you soon, I trust."

"Of course!" Alistair stated, nodding to Teagan as he bowed formally on his way out of the room.

"Ouf!" Leliana exhaled, collapsing into one of the chairs. "It'll be good to wash up properly."

"I feel insulted that I wasn't cast off to the carriage house," Morrigan teased Sten and Oghren. "You would think my being an apostate…"

"It's the feathers, dear," Wynne joked. "I hear such wardrobe embellishments are considered quite refined in Orlais."

Morrigan widened her eyes.

"I hardly meant my feathers as an embellishment—"

"No…it's more of a cautionary tale to birds everywhere," Alistair quipped.

"I don't care where they stick me, as long as I know where to land after I've had my ale, but I wonder why she wanted us away from the castle? Are we dirty, or somethin'?" Oghren puzzled, staring at Zevran.

"You, yes," Zevran explained with great authority. "Me, mostly because I am so handsome and enticing—she'd have a difficult time staying away from my bedroom," he continued cockily.

"Heh," Oghren's face crinkled into a mischievous grin. "I get it: that makes us both dirty, then, in different ways."

The two began guffawing at the juvenile crack, much to Jayne's mounting annoyance. Sten stood stoically by a small bowl filled with an assortment of traditionally Orlesian delicacies: nuts, dried berries, and crystallized fruit, and every once in a while raised his hand quickly to his mouth.

"I'm glad Connor is well," Jayne said to them.

"He was definitely glad to see you again," Wynne noted.

"Hmph," Zevran pouted, crossing his arms. "I have my eyes on him."

"Zevran! He's just a little boy!" Jayne censured him.

"There is no such thing when it comes to boys and I say this from experience," Zevran explained, stretching his legs out before him as he took a seat next to Morrigan. "He is nurturing all kinds of affections for you inside that undeveloped brain of his, dear Warden."

"I can't believe you are saying such a thing! He's a child!" she emphasized.

"Let's talk again in 7 years or so, when he is fully grown. At that age, he'll be the worst. The worst!" he declared, pointing to the ceiling with a knowing expression. "You pay heed to my words. And you know what is most bothersome, yes? It's that boys that age have a thing for older women," he explained. "Not a bad thing in and of itself, because, I must add, some of my most devastating maneuvers were taught to me by older women…" he revealed slyly.

"And now even the elderly are dangerous in Antiva," Alistair mumbled.

"That is true to an extent, but I meant devastating in the bedroom, Alistair…Where experience often trumps enthusiasm," he winked.

Jayne grimaced and shook her head.

"My friend Salvail, for instance, never recovered from that phase of his development." He stared at Wynne. "He would worship the ground you walk on, Wynne. Salvail prefers women with experience and maturity. He says they have more substance, are more robust and flavorful…" he stated, kissing the tips of his pinched fingers.

"When are those rooms going to be ready?…" Wynne wondered, leaning her body towards the hall.

"But you will see!" Zevran continued, unabated. "Right now he must content himself with sticking his tongue out at me, but in a few years he'll be challenging me to a duel over our fair Warden…And I will have to oblige him…after which I'll promptly defeat him and carve my initials with my dagger on his sorry—"

"I wish the moat around the village would challenge you to a duel so we could have some peace and quiet," Morrigan interrupted impatiently. "Go carve your initials on the water, until they take…"

Jayne blinked, watching him boast ridiculously, causing Leliana and Oghren to chuckle and the others to groan and argue back. Something inside her ached, tenderly.

_In a few years he'll be challenging me to a duel over our fair Warden…_

In a few years, he'd said.

 _I will take it_ , she told herself, unable to sustain her glare despite all the idiotic things he was spewing out at such a rapid pace.

He'd inadvertently revealed that he envisioned a future with her in it, she smiled at last, even if he did so in jest, even if the likelihood of such a thing appeared to be slim.

It gave her a rush of mad, impossible hope to imagine what kind of 'few years' those would be. She desperately, she admitted to herself, wanted to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Dialogue about Salvail is from the game. Poor Wynne. Isolde was one of the first Orlesians we got to meet in game, and she did not disappoint. She came across as haughty and I couldn't help feeling she was looking down on my Warden's party. Or maybe it had something to do with her being the ultimate force behind Alistair having been sent away from the only home he'd known, forced to train as a Templar. She's a riot- fun to write. Meow!


	39. Chapter 39

The Arlessa's "farewell repast" was a lavish affair that included all the noble and wealthier merchant families of Redcliffe. At least, those that remained and hadn't fled north. Jayne could barely contain her embarrassment when she entered the elegant salon in a simple tunic and trousers tucked into her boots. She'd had no idea of what to expect and hadn't bothered to find out much before a servant came knocking at her door, rousing her from the unintentional nap she'd been taking after enjoying the exquisite pleasure of washing herself in a proper tub. She had been given a large room at the end of a corridor, overlooking the craggy cliffs off the side of the castle. She had appreciated the accommodations, unaccustomed to comforts she had once taken for granted. Alistair had been given a room down the opposite end of the hallway and she had seen Oghren and Zevran ushered into a shared room right across his.

"Look! They gave us a double bed to share!" Oghren teased, peering into the room first.

"Dwarf, you are not my type!" Zevran warned him.

"I know. I am out of your league," Oghren boasted.

"And out of your mind." Zevran tapped his head playfully.

Leliana and Wynne agreed to share the room across from hers, as Morrigan laid claim to one of the last single rooms, Sten having taken the other. She'd noted, crossly, that all the rooms appeared to be in fine condition, having sustained no damage she could see.

While she stood beside a window in the grand salon, she cast Alistair an irritated look as he meandered over to her side, dressed in fine attire.

"Don't tell me you have been lugging formal clothes in your pack all this time. This is a cautionary scenario my mother always warned me about come true," she grumbled, eyeing the elegant embroidery on his shirt's collar.

"What? This old thing?" Alistair kidded. She smirked. "Actually, it's a loaner from Eamon's wardrobe." He raised the sleeve to Jayne's nose. "Smell it. I don't think its seen the light of day since the last Blight."

"Where are the others?" she asked, glancing around the opulent room.

"Let's see: Morrigan made up an excuse and got herself out of attending… Bodhan and Sandal preferred to have an earlier meal in the kitchen—they said Rune's already been fed… Leliana,Wynne, and Zevran are mingling…Oghren is sitting in a chair that is too big for him, and Sten is sitting next to him, on a tiny tuffet." He pointed at the mismatched duo.

Jayne leaned in to confide in him.

"I don't know what is more disturbing: the sight of those two sitting like that, or the fact you even know what a tuffet is."

She craned her neck to look over the room, catching a glimpse of Zevran.

That Zevran was up to no good was evident, she could tell. He was dressed in his most flattering clothes, looking as handsome as an elven sun god. She noticed his belted tunic framed his broad shoulders flatteringly and outlined his muscular arms. Of course, Zevran being Zevran, he'd somehow managed to have his clothes look crisp and uncreased. They were simple, unfussy pieces, but they were of good quality and expertly made.

"Antivan tailoring," he'd explained to her once, proudly, "is second to none. Our tailors can make even a sack of potatoes look stylish."

"I don't like where this conversation is goin'!" Oghren had yelled with irritation.

He'd left the top two buttons of the white tunic undone, affording a tantalizing glimpse of his sun kissed skin beneath. His sleek light gold hair had been braided and complemented his warm, honey colored eyes. She inhaled deeply as she contemplated the dashing figure he cut that evening…and the small entourage he'd managed to amass about him. She attempted to catch his attention, going as far as waving her hand at him, but he merely averted his eyes and finally turned his back to her.

 _What's up your sleeve, Zevran?_ … she squinted.

She realized she had never really seen the rogue under such circumstances. He appeared to be in his element, offering charming smiles and absorbing gazes. Four women watched and listened to him intently. She could almost empathize with what they felt, knowing that each time he looked at any of them, they would feel enveloped by the depth of his gaze, believe themselves admired, perhaps even beautiful. They would willingly allow themselves to be lured to his flame like the proverbial moths, attracted by nothing more than a desire to bask in his warmth, in his natural, easy charm. She watched disconcertedly as Zevran was openly gaped at, his arm intentionally grazed during casual conversation, those grown women giddily vying for his attention as if they were silly schoolgirls allowed to mingle after Chantry services.

He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely, she realized, as his signature half grin spread languidly across his lips; she felt a sinking feeling in her stomach.

They had nothing more than an arrangement.

An arrangement that said nothing about constancy and exclusivity…both things he'd indicated he loathed. For all she knew, they were still free to pursue others, according to their whims and desires. But what had she expected? To experience the blush of pure love with a jaded man such as her Antivan assassin? To find herself in the position to curtail his enjoyment of something he savored and force him to forsake all others for her?

She seized a crystal wine goblet from a passing tray.

 _I'm going to need a whole lot of these_ , she chastised herself.  _I do love him. Of that much I am certain. Even if all I am to him is a partner in this …"arrangement_."

Maker, the word grated on her.

She realized, watching as he gestured gracefully while he spoke, she hated the thought of him so easily redirecting his affections. Yet, she couldn't demand that kind of faithfulness from him; she wouldn't dream of asking. He wouldn't expect it of her, either, she knew. And yet, somehow, he already had it from her. Willingly. Because she loved  _him_ — not the sensation of being in love, she understood. The thought of seeking pleasure for pleasure's sake did not appeal to her as it appealed, she suspected, to him.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the Arl, eschewing his duties as host for a moment as he gathered her, Alistair and Teagan aside, towards a quiet corner of the room.

"The Landsmeet will be my last formal act as Arl of Redcliffe," he confessed to them somberly.

"I don't understand," Alistair protested. "You have been the Arl of Redcliffe for as long as I can remember. These people look up to you. They need you now more than ever!" he stated.

Eamon flashed a weary grin filled with genuine affection at Alistair.

"And I will not let them down. I do this precisely for them," he declared, looking out the window rather than at the nobles assembled in the room. He sighed gravely. "Isolde and I will remain in Denerim, in the old Guerrin estate," he explained. "And Teagan will run the Arling. I have no doubts regarding his capacity to do so. He has ruled Rainesfere prudently and efficiently as Bann. He has had to step into my position several times over the past few years, under trying circumstances no less, and he has always excelled."

"What has compelled you to make such a decision?" Jayne wondered, concerned.

"The truth is, I must step down," Eamon explained. "Ever since it came to light that Connor is a mage and that we tried to harbor him from the Circle and the Templars…relations between the village and the castle have been strained," he sighed. He glanced across the room, where Connor sat beside his mother. " As a mage, he cannot inherit my title or the land. There is no reason for me to cling to power. For me to do so would only foster further instability and mistrust."

The pause in their conversation afforded her the opportunity of shifting her eyes to where Zevran stood, his circle of admirers growing. She caught the tail end of an introduction and watched as he delicately took an extended hand and brushed his lips over the fingertips. He must have uttered something witty, she imagined, for a burst of laughter filled with frisson echoed back to them.

Jayne exhaled heavily, burying her nose in her goblet of wine.

"The people still trust you," Eamon continued, addressing his brother. "They respect you as someone who did not abandon them during one of the most harrowing times they faced." He placed a stolid, trusting hand over his shoulder. "You will make a splendid Arl," he told him earnestly.

Teagan grinned wanly.

"I suspect he has mixed feelings because along with the title comes a different kind of responsibility…" the Arl confided meaningfully to her and Alistair. "His days as a carefree bachelor will have to come to an end," he teased, patting his shoulder reassuringly. "It won't be so bad," he grinned. "I only hope you can find a wife as loving and as devoted as Isolde."

Alistair began to cough loudly behind his goblet of wine.

"Excuse me," he apologized between breaths, pounding his fist over his chest lightly. "It went down the wrong way."

Jayne pressed her lips, disguising a smile just before she noticed Teagan's eyes linger upon her. She swiftly took another swig from her goblet.

_Yes: much more of this to make it through the evening._

"Speaking of arlings, what do you suppose will become of the teyrnir of Highever?" Eamon inquired of her. "If we can muster enough support, there shouldn't be any question of restituting the title to the Couslands…And as the sole surviving heir…"

"I am now a Grey Warden," she interrupted him. "I have no claim to any titles."

"Well! If our plan to reinstate the Theirin line to power, by making our own Alistair here king, succeeds, I am sure that provision will be promptly struck down…"

She shifted uncomfortably. She hadn't thought of that: if a Grey Warden could be king, then she most definitely could be Teyrna.

"You should consider the possibility, Lady Cousland, and ponder how forging certain…alliances… could benefit you," Eamon said with a courteous nod. He tapped Alistair's arm. "I need to introduce you to a few people of interest," he said pointedly, escorting him towards another group at the center of the room, leaving her alone with Teagan.

 _Eamon is a political siege weapon_.

She watched his serious expression quickly morph into an affable smile as he approached a small group of guests. He was constantly plotting and machinating, it seemed. Was it any wonder Loghain had wanted the stately man dead?

Teagan uttered an uneasy laugh.

"My brother…" he sighed. "Only happy if he has two simultaneous fronts to charge," he apologized.

"It's ensured his survival in Ferelden's many power shuffles," she stated, avoiding Teagan's eyes.

"I am not sure I agree; it almost cost him…everything."

They stood in an awkward silence observing the other guests in lively conversations.

"I don't know if you were aware, but I knew both your father and brother," Teagan continued.

"You did?" she turned to him, intrigued.

"We met several times over talks involving the Bannorn. Teyrn Cousland was well-respected and he was often sought out as a neutral observer and advisor when the Banns met to negotiate various matters," he stated. "Regardless of how heated discussions became, your father always remained level-headed. More recently, your brother had been the one attending negotiations in your father's stead. I remember thinking he was so shrewd, we had best read and re-read our treaties and contracts. One of the Banns used to say that once Fergus Cousland was done addressing the Council of Freeholders, we'd all be persuaded to gladly hand over our lands and wives," he chuckled, reminiscing. He turned his eyes upon her, admiringly. "Are you as effective a negotiator as your brother?" he wondered.

"I'm afraid I did not inherit their sanguine dispositions," she admitted. "I tend to be more outspoken, more impulsive." She smirked. " There's a reason why you only ever saw my father and brother at those talks."

"Ah, then you and I have something in common," he tilted his head, entertained. "I wonder if it is because we are the younger siblings? But… don't dismiss those qualities," he advised her. "There is much to say for passion and sentiment, at the right time, in the appropriate measure. Eamon was always the planner, but he needed me to win over and rally our troops," he explained. "And you…I imagine it must be the same with you, given how you have garnered the support of old allies," he pointed out.

The bright tingling of a small bell resounded throughout the room.

"Dinner is served," the Arlessa announced, standing up. "Please join us in the dining room," she smiled coolly. Jayne turned her head instinctively to where Zevran had been standing. As the crowd began to file into the large room, she noticed him wander towards the entrance with two women clinging proudly to his arm, all heads turning to follow them.

 _Suddenly, I've lost my appetite_ , she thought morosely. She noticed, though, that Teagan had not left her side. Instead, he gallantly offered his own arm to her.

"Shall we, my Lady?"

She took it.

"It's been a while since I've been called that," she confessed.


	40. Chapter 40

The great dining room was typically Fereldan in architecture: low ceilings, stoney walls, and dark hardwood floors. The furniture, however, was most definitely Orlesian. The windows had been dressed with luxurious damask curtains and beneath the table stretched a large, elegant rug with dainty floral and architectural motifs. A lavish low-lying floral arrangement ran the length of the table. After the guests had circled it, trying to locate their seats, the Arl's servants carried in trays of wine glasses and brought them, in a well coordinated and practiced flurry of activity, the first course of their dinner: porcelain crocks of pipping hot velouté. She noticed that despite the disorderly way the guests had entered the dining room, the Arlessa adhered strictly to old Orlesian formal seating etiquette: Eamon sat at one end of the table, as their host, and Alistair sat, as the male guest of honor, at the opposite end of the long dining table. Isolde sat to Alistair's left side, a misfortune that she was certain they would commiserate over later. She, as the female guest of honor, had been placed at the Arl's right side. Teagan, unsurprisingly, had been very intentionally seated beside her. The guests were subsequently placed in an alternating pattern of man-woman. She was sorry her companions had been seated closer to the center of the table, beyond her conversational reach. As she pulled her chair in, she looked down her side of the table, finding Zevran comfortably surrounded by women- two beside him, and two across. Sitting directly across from him was Sten, and Zevran and his gaggle of gawking admirers all appeared to be trying to console the Qunari, who was examining the various kinds of silverware displayed around his place setting with either panic or curiosity.

_With Sten, it is hard to tell._

She suddenly envied Morrigan, who was probably comfortably huddled by the fire, paging through Flemeth's Grimoire in peace.

As she spread the napkin over her lap, she realized that Zevran hadn't as much as acknowledged her presence that evening. It was odd, she found.

 _Definitely up to something,_ she frowned.

She lamented she couldn't ask any of her companions.

Redcliffe's Chantry was represented at the table in the guise of the dour-faced Mother sitting across from her, eating her soup with a guarded, suspicious air, and beside her sat Redcliffe's newly appointed Captain of the Guard. The evening languished in a heavy dullness typical of such formal occasions, with the added melancholy of the Arl's departure and the uncertainty of Redcliffe's fate. Arl Eamon and Teagan, nevertheless, were skilled conversationalists, weaving through various topics with ease and humor. As their plates were changed between courses throughout the evening, Jayne found herself immersed in the Arl's tales. Threads of conversation on Queen Rowan, King Maric, and Eamon's role in the Resistance during the Orlesian occupation kept her entertained. She learned the story of how Isolde, daughter of the Orlesian governor who ruled Redcliffe, defied her family for the love of the Arl. It would have made a grand love story, except for the fact Jayne couldn't stand the woman.

 _Am I too cynical if I suspect Isolde chose the Arl over her family simply because she preferred the real estate?_ …

She set down her knife and fork to the side of the plate. Highever had been much grander than Redcliffe, but Isolde had that flair that was uniquely Orlesian. She hated to admit it, but her touches added charm to the rooms—her flowers and trinkets gave life and color to otherwise lugubrious surroundings. Perhaps her perception of Isolde was tainted by her own prejudices. She glanced at Connor, seated beside his mother, never too far from her. The boy had a sleepy, bored expression, but perked up slightly when he looked down the table and caught Jayne's sympathetic smile.

_I may not like Isolde, but I can understand the grief she is experiencing at the prospect of having to send her only son to the Circle._

"What is on your mind, my Lady?" Teagan asked her quietly as Eamon engaged in conversation with the Captain.

"Nothing much…" she replied politely.

He leaned his elbow on the table, cradling his cheek in his hand and gazing at her contemplatively.

"I've noticed you furrow your brow just so," he said, raising a finger and pausing right before her forehead, "when in deep thought."

 _You've noticed? Since when have you been noticing?_ she wondered, bringing the napkin to her lips.  _Would that have been between the second and third wave of undead attacks on Redcliffe?_  she restrained herself from asking, amusedly.

 _Well, future_   _Arl Teagan is on a mission!…A more defenseless maiden might be engaged by dessert._

Her eyes wandered down the table again, as she leaned forward under the pretense of examining the sprawling floral arrangements, curious to see what her Antivan was doing. She startled as her eyes caught his just as he turned them away, back to his boisterous companions, their laughter rather raucous, undoubtedly lubricated by the many glasses of wine they had already consumed. She noticed one of the women was redirecting some of her flirtatious attentions to Sten. She had undoubtedly commended him on either his broad, strong shoulders or his robust physique in general by very brazenly patting and shaking his arm. Sten had slowly turned to face her with an expression so inscrutable, Jayne couldn't help but laugh.

"I find your Qunari companion disconcerting," Teagan confessed, leaning his head in closer to hers.

"He may seem so at first, but I assure you we are fortunate to have him on our side."

"What have you learned about his people? I heard they are warrior-like and inflexible in their beliefs," Teagan continued.

"Perhaps," she conceded. "But we can't all be perfect now, can we?" she replied coyly, having no intention of pursuing that conversation further.

"No, but some of us can be perfectly evasive," he said in a low voice, the corners of his mouth curling into a small grin. "What a lovely, courtly way of telling me to mind my business," he said, feigning offense.

_Persistent…and clever._

"I may be a Warden now, but I was once a lady, as you know," she joked.

"I see!…Do you always curtsey before you stab?" he asked, narrowing his eyes gamely.

"I would, if Darkspawn appreciated such fine manners," she laughed.

He clucked his tongue in a display of disapproval.

"All the more reason to swiftly do away with them." He smiled charmingly and she felt her cheeks blush.

 _I may not be interested, but I am certainly flattered,_  she thought.

After the dinner was over, trays of cordials were brought to the adjacent salon, and the guests dispersed, meandering off into various corners to settle into more subdued conversations. The hour grew late and the guests began to depart, gradually. She finally managed to steer Teagan, who would not leave her side, towards the doorway, where she was able to rejoin Alistair, Wynne, Leliana, Oghren, and Sten. Eamon and Isolde stood close by, bidding their guests farewell. Zevran was still occupied with his entourage, which now included two men. As the activity died down, and most of the guests had left, she saw that only Zevran's small group remained strong.

"What are we waiting for?" Jayne finally asked.

Alistair and Leliana exchanged glances, while the others looked at either the Arlessa or Zevran.

 _Everyone's behaving strangely_ , she thought, annoyed.

"Just a few more minutes," Leliana implored.

"Give up— call it," Alistair claimed smugly.

The Arlessa folded her arms and cast a bleary eye at the spirited retinue.

"Your ally, that blond-haired elf, has garnered quite the attention," she stated, appraising him from afar. She brought her hand up to her mouth to disguise a yawn. "I'll admit he is rather striking."

"Oh?" the Arl inquired, facing his wife with a hint of surprise.

"For an elf!" she quickly amended, self consciously.

At her words, Leliana and Oghren both let out victorious cries, while Wynne grimaced and Alistair groaned. Eamon and Isolde turned their attention to them, confusedly.

"Do you have any idea of what is going on?" Teagan asked her, glancing at her companions.

 _I've definitely missed something_ , Jayne brooded.

"Some mysteries are best left unsolved," she declared. "Good night!" she announced abruptly, turning on her heels, hastily beating a retreat towards the stairwell, storming up the steps before anyone could reply or react.


	41. Chapter 41

She'd already dressed into her nightshirt and was standing barefoot in the alcove, splashing water on her face over the wash basin when she heard the small commotion in the hallway: doors opening, voices engaging in a discussion. She wandered to the door and paused, listening.

"Pay up!" Leliana chirped merrily.

"I cannot believe it," Morrigan complained.

"I thought the elf wasn't goin' to pull it off… but he came through, he did," Oghren said with gruff joviality.

"You know he is going to be insufferable after this," Morrigan sighed.

"As opposed to what?" Wynne asked.

"Here are your two coins," Morrigan said sullenly.

Jayne finally cracked the door open.

"What is going on?"

"We just won a bet!" Leliana grinned widely, shaking several coins in her palm.

"What bet?"

"That the Arlessa would pay Zevran a compliment before the night was over."

Her eyes widened.

"Whose idea was that?"

Oghren rubbed his beard.

"Let's see… He was miffed about the carriage house and said somethin'… Alistair doubted it, then Morrigan dared him…and before you knew it, we all took sides... wagered bets…And now I'm rich!" Oghren chuckled, patting his pocket.

"We would have let you in on it, but you were in your room and we didn't want to disturb you," Leliana explained.

Jayne shook her head wearily.

"So that whole display downstairs was all for show?"

"He just got lucky, if you ask me," Alistair sulked.

"What you call luck I call—"

"I don't know why you are cheering him on, Leliana!" Alistair protested. "He was blatantly manipulating those people just to gain attention and win a bet!"

Leliana pursed her lips in a knowing grin.

"Using people who would otherwise have used him, instead?" she inquired. "Besides, he did nothing more than act like himself."

"Don't try that, Alistair," Morrigan cautioned teasingly. "You'd only manage to get yourself a one-way trebuchet launch to Denerim."

"Oh funny, Morrigan! I'd make sure to give your regards to any of your dragon brethren I ran into while in the air," he retorted.

"Where is Zevran now?" Jayne asked, peering down the hallway.

"I don't know." Leliana glanced over her shoulder.

"Probably collecting his payment from one of them ladies," Oghren cackled.

Jayne fell silent, his words smarting. Oghren quickly became silent too, once he realized his gaffe. Leliana and Alistair's glares bore into him.

"Good night," Wynne called out sleepily, entering the room across hers.

They all mumbled tiredly and Jayne watched them retreat into their respective bedrooms—all, except Leliana and Alistair.

"Are you all right, Jayne?" Alistair asked. "You're not really upset, are you?"

Leliana reached over and pat her arm.

"I doubt Oghren is right," she said encouragingly. "Zevran was just sporting—"

"It doesn't matter, does it?" Jayne told them. "He's free to do whatever he pleases."

She backed into her bedroom and pushed the door shut before they could say anything. She inhaled deeply and leaned her forehead against the wooden frame, her mouth dry, the ache in her chest tightening.

"You mean, free to do  _whomever_  I please…" she heard the accented voice murmur directly behind her.

She whirled around in shock, leaning against the door and coming face to face with the assassin.

"How—When did you manage to—"

"While you were over there." He pointed casually to the wash basin as he wandered towards the bed. "I was waiting for you to notice."

He sat on the edge of the mattress and bounced on it tentatively.

"We have a bed tonight," he purred. "That gives us some new…options," he grinned suggestively, patting the spot beside him.

She bridled.

"I don't think I'm interested tonight," she said hastily, circling around, making her way towards the small alcove containing the basin.

His hand rapidly lunged forward, seizing her wrist.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She wrested herself loose and turned towards him, her frustration rising.

"You ignored me the entire evening. Frankly, I'm amazed you even bothered to come by. Am I the first or the last stop?"

 _You are sounding as shrill as a jealous mistress_ , Jayne winced.

"You heard them! I was just trying to win a bet. How was I supposed to know you weren't told about it before?"

"Forgive me," she said, her eyes narrowing skeptically, "but how does one go from fishing for a compliment from the Arlessa to holding a small court of women in thrall?"

"Don't forget there were at least a couple men, too," Zevran added provocatively.

She snorted and stormed into the small room. She heard him walk towards the doorway. He sighed deeply, observing her as he leaned a shoulder against the door frame.

"My dear, it would be poor form to attempt charming the Arlessa directly," he explained coolly and with thinly disguised amusement. "I could…It would have been much quicker…but the repercussions…The Arl's reaction wouldn't have been anything you or our group would be pleased with me for, bet or no bet."

"So now you are telling me your aim was to seduce the Arlessa?"

He paused and contemplated the ceiling.

"Seduce? I was not thinking along those lines, no," he explained. "That would be an unrewarding undertaking requiring an inordinate amount of time and dedication with no guaranteed returns, given that the Arlessa does demonstrate affection for her husband," he continued. "I was thinking more along the lines of a little attention, a little flattery... Such things go a long way in the right ears. I just wanted the satisfaction of hearing her state…the truth," he smiled saucily. "For some rightful vindication….Which I got."

Jayne stopped in her tracks.

"And winning this bet justifies your behavior towards me tonight? How you ignored me completely?" she asked accusingly.

He shifted, stretching his back against the doorway, a glint in his eye.

" _Ignore_  you?" he asked in a low voice. "Hardly. I had my eye on you all night—I saw when you stepped into the room, where you stood, when you were talking to Alistair, when the Arl took you aside for a private chat." He paused, contemplating her with an enigmatic gaze. "And how you entered the dining room on Bann Teagan's arm and delighted in your intimate little tete-a-tete throughout the evening."

She flushed at his words.

In a flash, both his hands were splayed out at either side of her against the wall.

"Warden, we can play this little game for a while, but I'd rather not waste the evening—an evening we've already spent mostly apart," he said seductively.

 _This is dangerous_ , she thought. Part of her was finding her defenses unraveling; his proximity, his voice, his intense gaze all beckoned her somewhere far more pleasant, where she would much rather be… But not at the cost of the unresolved emotions he had stirred. The hurt still stung within. She had to draw her limits—there was only so much she was able to accept and admit as part of their arrangement without damage to herself.

She hated how vulnerable she was feeling at that moment.

"If you have something weighing on your mind, I need you to be honest with me," he urged her.

She raised her hands and pushed against his chest, forcing him away from her. She wandered back into the bedroom and sat on the bed, staring ahead. The words came out before she could ponder them, temper their blow.

"Zevran, I don't think I can do this," she said faintly.


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never expected, when I published the first chapter to this fic last year that I'd still be going strong 41 chapters later...And I couldn't imagine all the interesting and awesome people I've had the pleasure of forging cool connections with thanks to our mutual lust for Zevran- I MEAN-our love of stories and fanfic...*Ahem* You must hug yourselves for me, because you honestly make me so very happy. I often find myself smiling and laughing as I read through your words about "Chance." 
> 
> Thank you! Really! 
> 
> A longer chapter today because... you are all the most witty and fabulous readers I could ask for!

Zevran's golden eyes flickered in the firelight. He blinked a few times, the only indication he'd been caught off guard by her words. Other than that, he remained perfectly still. Jayne looked down at her hands, spread over her knees, trying her hardest to stay calm even as her heart pounded against her chest.

"I never intended this to be something that makes you unhappy, Warden," he said at last. His tone was measured, cool. "I'll be out this door and it'll be as if nothing ever happened between us, if that's what you'd prefer."

_It is not. I don't want you to go. But I can't ask of you what I need._

She peered up at his face hoping to find some vestige of his usual amusement over her reactions, some sign that he could see farther into the meaning of her words, that he would pry and ask and refuse to accept what she had said. Anything to indicate he needed her as much as she needed him. Instead, she found an emotionless face, devoid of any of the signs their being together had forged: the playful grins, the arched or furrowed brows, and the affection that emanated from his eyes when they were alone. There was none of that— she might as well have been peering into the face of a stranger.

"Good night, Warden," he said curtly, hurrying towards the door.

She sat numbly, startling only when she heard the door shut behind her.

_That simple. Just like that. Our arrangement, null and void._

Her eyes welled up and she gasped for air, her breathing uneven, her chest tight.

Just that morning she had awoken in his arms. She never could have imagined it would be the last time.

 _How much loss can one person take? I don't think I—my body—can take anymore. This might be the one that finally breaks me_ , she lamented, crossing her arms over her stomach and leaning forward, the pain from the grief and emptiness overcoming her.

She could not move; she did not dare. If she moved, it all became real—a border between before and after: a before she already mourned and an after she was dreading. She couldn't say how long she sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the darkened window panes before her.

She came to only when the door creaked open, unexpectedly, and to her surprise, as she glanced over her shoulder, Zevran stormed back in, moving purposefully towards her.

She summoned all her resolve not to break down as he stood once more before her, arms crossed stolidly before his chest. He stared at her with a hardened expression, but behind the crossed arms, she could see his own chest heaving.

"Forgive me if you find me impertinent, but I would just like to know why. I think that much, at least, I deserve," he stated defiantly.

He peered at her intently, almost anxiously.

"I realized something about myself tonight," she began. "And I know it is something you will not like…You will be disappointed. It's best…" she faltered.

"I want to know," he demanded brusquely. "I hate it when decisions that affect me are reached without consulting me. I am competent enough to decide for myself whether or not I'd be disappointed, no? I should hope you respect me enough to entrust me with that much." She could see him struggle to maintain his impeccably indifferent façade. He almost seemed…upset.

She remained in silence, collecting her thoughts, trying to string together the words she needed to convey her feelings. The ache in the pit of her stomach grew more intense.

"I know you cherish your freedom…I can understand that. You have always been forthcoming and candid about such matters," she stated, watching him cautiously as he listened to her speak, noticing his jaw tense. "But tonight… seeing you…just…the way those women were looking at you, competing for your attention…And then watching how you indulged them…" She looked away, her brow furrowing as she remembered.

_Tell him how it felt. He should know, no matter what._

"It hurt," she said, almost accusingly. "It hurt…so very deeply… to imagine you being close the way you are with me with someone else."

She expected him to remain in that stoic character, to simply nod, turn on his heels, and leave wordlessly. She'd betrayed the terms of their agreement and now he knew it, she was certain of it. Instead, she saw him drop his arms to his side, exhaling heavily and closing his eyes for a moment. She looked on in slight confusion as he rubbed his forehead with one hand.

"Is that what this is all about?" he asked after a short while. He still appeared to be upset, but at least he seemed more familiar to her, his voice acquiring that timbre he adopted anytime he grew exasperated.

"What do you mean?"

"You are pushing me away because you are jealous," he stated simply.

She was about to protest when she realized it was pointless to hide it any further. He did deserve to know, even if he was going to end up walking out all the same.

"Yes. I am. The thought of having to share you with others upsets me," she admitted. "But I don't expect you to…" she halted again, grasping for the words. "It's my problem," she added. "It's my problem. I can't hold you to expectations and promises we never discussed."

"You are right," he told her. "Those aren't things we ever bothered to discuss," he said in a reproachful tone. He approached the bed, his demeanor more at ease, and sat beside her, drawing up one of his legs. "You know, Warden, most civilized people talk about these things with each other before they make such definitive decisions," he censured her.

"I don't like being like this. I don't want to be someone imposing control on you. You are free to do as you please," she said, adamantly.

_You'd only grow to resent me for making you go against your desires._

"There is nothing wrong with admitting you feel jealous," he murmured. "Jealousy is not an emotion I trifle with, but it is normal— ordinary, even. It's how you act while in its grasp that matters.' He examined her pensively.

"I don't like it," she interrupted. "I don't like being jealous. It's not who I want to be. But… I just can't do it, Zevran" she reaffirmed sadly. She took another deep breath, commanding herself to maintain her voice steady. "I can't be with you if it's not going to be just the two of us." She sought out his eyes. He tilted his head and his expression softened as he listened to her. "I understand if what I need from you is not something you want," she told him.

 _There_ , she thought.  _It is done._

"I'm so very sorry I upset you," he said gently, sincerely. "I thought for sure someone would have told you…that you knew. I even imagined you were betting against me." The shadow of a grin crossed his face. "When you waved, I was certain you were trying to distract me, because if anyone can derail my most clever plans, dear Warden… that person is you." He reached his hand to her face, caressing her cheek. When she raised her eyes, it was there—that warmth she craved and that she had feared lost to her. She turned and kissed his palm.

He rested his forehead against hers, "I could never be the way I am with you with anyone else, amora" he said reassuringly. "Do you know why?"

"Why?" she whispered.

"Because no one else is… you," he grinned.

She furrowed her brow.

"I don't know if you are mocking me now…Of course no one else is me!" she said crossly.

"No, no one else," he confirmed, affection in his voice. "You are the only one…" his voice trailed off and they remained quiet. "Warden," he continued, lacing his fingers between hers. "You have my word—my promise— that I would never do anything to hurt you." He squeezed her hand, bringing it up to his lips. "You know that, don't you?"

She averted her eyes, but nodded.

"Do you forgive me, then?"

_I am in over my head. In every single aspect of my wretched life._

"I heartily suggest you do, because if you don't, I will just have to dedicate my efforts to seducing you again. That would mean more serenading, and you have already told me how you feel about my singing."

She smiled at last, causing him to smile, too.

"I suspect it is the true reason you had to leave Antiva…" she teased.

"But I need you to tell me: am I forgiven?" he insisted.

"Yes, yes. Please, whatever you do…Don't sing," she said lightheartedly. Still, he did not let go of her hand and continued to gaze at her questioningly. "Yes," she finally replied. "You are forgiven."

He kissed her forehead, seemingly relieved.

"But are you all right with…"  _Our 'amended' terms?_ she wondered, uneasily. "With this being…just the two of us?" she asked.

A glint surfaced in his eyes again. "Mmm…I don't know that I could handle more than that…You keep me quite busy as it is…I am discovering my personal limit is one Fereldan per lifetime," he joked.

She gave him a reproving glance and he laughed.

"I am glad we talked…" he said, lying over the bed lazily on his back and placing her hand in his over his chest. "It seems we both misunderstood each other."

"I'm surprised you even had time to misunderstand me at all, given how you were otherwise engaged," she sniffed. "What could you have possibly misunderstood?" she puzzled.

He squeezed her hand tighter.

"I thought for sure you were ending it because—"

"Because what?" she challenged him.

He turned to face her again and shook his head, as if dismissing the thought. He tugged at her, pulling her down into the bed by his side, extending his arm so she could curl herself into him. She rested her head on his shoulder and felt a bloom of warmth surface as his fingers grazed over her shoulders, stopping to stroke the nape of her neck.

_I want to believe you. I need to believe you._

"Tell me something…" he asked tentatively. "What do you think of Bann Teagan?"

 _Ah, this? Now?_  She lifted her head to examine his face.

"What about Teagan?" she asked.

He gave her an amusedly outraged look and slipped his arm away, propping himself up on an elbow.

" _Teagan_ , is it now? Dispensing with the 'Bann' altogether? And when did  _that_  happen? Was it before the velouté or after the candied almonds?" he wondered with exasperation.

"Are you trying to humor me?" she asked in disbelief.

"Oh, there is nothing humorous about this," he widened his eyes. "You'd better start explaining yourself, my Lady Warden!"

His tone was playful, but she had the feeling he was not going to let the subject go, as he looked at her expectantly.

"I think his life is being turned upside down. Eamon told Alistair and me that he was giving the arling to Teagan after…all of this is over. He and Isolde are retiring to Denerim."

"It's a clever move on his part. The people won't be too sorry to see him go after what happened here, I am sure," he stated.

"Well, yes…that's a big part of it. Besides, Connor is a mage and can't hold a title."

"Ah, but not all is lost," Zevran said pensively. "If a Grey Warden becomes king, who knows what else might be possible?" he insinuated.

"He did say that if Alistair became king, he would be able to restore my claim to Highever," she agreed. " But I also suspect the Arl would like to establish an… alliance," she emphasized, "between Redcliffe and the teyrndom of Highever," she stated amusedly.

Zevran lstared at the ceiling.

"Hmm…And with a little guidance from the good Arl, Alistair could be persuaded to restore Connor's claim to Redcliffe…I will not be surprised if Arl Eamon spearheads many of the proposed reforms to how the Circle handles mages' affairs…At least noble-born mages, who have always enjoyed a privileged treatment, despite everything. I suspect he is not relinquishing his claim to the arling."

"Why wouldn't he? Connor could never be their Arl. Not after what transpired here."

"That's how Bann Teagan," he emphasized, provocatively, "who is such a dutiful brother, becomes useful in holding the title for Connor."

"No…" she disagreed. "He will pass the title on to his own children someday."

"Not if he marries someone unlikely to bear a child to him…"

"Like a Grey Warden…" Her eyes shifted back to him uneasily.

"A Grey Warden who stands to inherit the very desirable teyrndom of Highever, no less," he suggested.

 _Maker_!

"Eamon may yet see the title restored to his son…a title that would secure the Guerrins' power over Rainesfere, Redcliffe, and Highever. By then Connor might have heirs of his own…" he continued.

"But mages cannot—"

"Not yet!" Zevran interjected. "But with the good Arl residing in Denerim, where he'll have the king's ear and have influence over any new legislation regarding mages in Ferelden, who can say?"

Jayne's brow furrowed.

"But there are so many contingencies…It's too far fetched. It's a very convoluted plan! I mean, this is going into changing Chantry dogma!" she argued.

Zevran laughed.

"We are speaking about a man who was at the heart of Redcliffe's resistance movement against the mighty Orlesian empire. Don't you think everyone was telling him the same thing as he plotted to reclaim his lost castle? Do you think Orlais was a lesser foe than a bunch of Chantry Mothers bound to his purse strings? The only difference between a brilliant plan and an idiotic plan, honestly, is hindsight in the wake of the plan's success or failure, no?"

"You have a devious mind," Jayne said with mild fascination, remembering how the Arl had pushed Teagan and her together so obviously during the dinner. She squeezed his arm, entertained. "Do you think he married Isolde as part of his plot to reconquer Redcliffe?"

"No…that I think was just a curious and unexpected development. Can you imagine? The hero of the resistance marrying the daughter of his Orlesian oppressor? Those are the things that make history so interesting to me." His face became exaggeratedly grave and he began to recite: "And Eamon Guerrin burst through the halls of his ancestral Redcliffe Castle, ready to reclaim his birthright, only to find the fair Isolde d'Orlais—"

"That's not her maiden—"

"— waiting for him in nothing but her naked skin, uttering: 'I surrender, you big strong man…'" he acted out, with a ridiculously smoldering look. "To which the future Arl responded with a prompt drop of his pants."

She burst out laughing.

"Maker, you are quite mad in your embellishments! I am starting to suspect all your adventure stories are made up and that back in Antiva you were just a…a parasol bearer for some pompous noble."

"Would you like me to show you my parasol? I might even let you hold it…" he asked saucily.

They both laughed.

_It is these moments I love. This holds everything at bay. It gives me strength, it gives me heart._

"I think you have an overactive imagination," she taunted.

"It's a skill that has saved my neck many times," he told her defensively. "As we say in Antiva, 'don't blame the poison if you don't suspect the cup, the well, and the water.'"

She raised her eyebrows. That had actually made some sense.

"Bann Teagan defers to his brother," Zevran added. "But, that does not mean he wasn't enjoying his brother's plan," he concluded. "I saw how he looked at you…" he poked her shoulder insinuatingly.

"You are not jealous now, are you?" Jayne asked with curious surprise.

"Me? Never!" he scoffed. "I respect your choices and decisions. If you ever chose to pursue such an alliance, if it was what you desired, I would never interfere," he said, suddenly serious.

Her mind began to race. Was that why he acted so strangely earlier? Perhaps because he thought she was discarding him to clear the path for a favorable political alliance?

_Oh, Jayne. Who has the overactive imagination now?_

"So if I chose to play my hand at this political plotting and married Teagan, you would accept it… and be fine with it?" she asked suspiciously.

"If you chose to do so… yes, of course," he stated. "I would accept it."

 _Well, that's the reply I get for asking an idiotic question_ , she decided.

His hand let go of hers and before she realized what was happening, he'd drawn closer and his lips sought hers, gliding into a deep, inebriating kiss that caused her breath to quicken. He contemplated her with hooded eyes.

"I would accept it… but I would most definitely not be fine with it…" he murmured, his breath hot against her skin as it followed the curve of her neck. "You would be throwing your life away on him…" His hands slid over the nightshirt, pulling at the small knotted ribbon over her breasts. "Because he will never make you truly happy," he told her in a quiet voice as he loosened the ribbon. " No matter how long you are together… he is torn in too many directions." She encircled his neck with her arms. "His heart and mind aren't still or at ease long enough to really see you as you are." She kissed his lips softly, even as he spoke to her. "And because he—"

"Because he isn't you," she said tenderly. "And you are all I want," she said simply.

At her words, he roughly pulled her against him.

"You can't say devastating things like that to me without fair warning, Warden. I can't be held accountable for what I want to do to you right now…"

"The only reply I can think of to that is something I've been told by this Antivan elf I know…"

"Oh, yes? Illuminate me!"

He began to undo the buttons to his tunic and she slid her hands over his chest, beneath his tunic, and began to slide them downwards, caressing him past his chest, over his taut stomach, his muscles tensing the further down her hands went.

"I am yours," she whispered into his ear. "Only yours."

His breath hitched and it was all he could do not to tear her clothes off.


	43. Chapter 43

The knock startled Jayne from her sleep and she awoke to find herself disoriented and confused. She did not know what time it was, she couldn't imagine who could be at the door, and Zevran was not beside her in the bed. She reached towards the foot of the bed for her tunic and pulled it hastily over her head, blinking in the early morning light. Another loud knock urged her to hurry.

"Just a moment," she called out, glancing around the room for the trousers she had flung aside in a fit of anger earlier the previous evening. As she pulled them on swiftly, and the third knock sounded more impatiently, she felt a firm hand on her waist.

Zevran had stepped out from the alcove, fully dressed, still patting the droplets of water from his chin with a towel.

"I can get that, if you don't mind," he told her, giving her a small peck on the lips.

She nodded gratefully, scurrying into the alcove to finish getting ready. She heard him pace to the door and turn the lock.

"What are YOU doing here?!" an irritated young voice cried out.

"I could ask you the same question!" Zevran retorted as loudly.

She peered around the corner to see Connor standing at her door, his slender arms akimbo, an irked expression on his face.

"Good morning, Connor!" she called out. "Give me a minute and I will be right out," she told him.

"There you are!" he said cheerfully, slipping past Zevran. "I thought I had the wrong room."

"You do have the wrong room," he said impatiently. "Go back to yours and don't bother the grownups in the wee hours of the morning."

Jayne stepped into the unkempt bedroom coiling her hair into a bun.

"I don't have to do anything you tell me," Connor stated dismissively at Zevran as he marched towards her. "I'm here for Jayne!" He threw his arms around her and buried his face in her stomach. She pet his head affectionately as Zevran gave them a disapproving stare.

"I am so happy we are going to Denerim together! Maman said you would be staying with us there, too! We can have breakfast together every day!" he said excitedly, taking her hand and dragging her towards the door.

"Ooh! I can't wait!" Zevran teased. "We're all going to have so much fun."

Connor stopped and a stormy expression crossed his freckled face.

"I'm inviting Jayne, only. Not you."

"Too bad. I'm coming, too," Zevran stated, taking Jayne's other hand and staring down the child with a defiant air.

Jayne gave Zevran a curious glance.

"No, you're not," he said, sternly. "I don't want you to!"

"But I bet Jayne wants me to," he provoked. "And do you know why?"

"No!" the child yelled.

"Because she likes me better than you!" he quipped daringly. And to her disbelief, he concluded his act by sticking out his tongue at the boy.

Connor shook his hand free and charged the rogue, kicking up his foot to strike him in the leg. Zevran bent his legs to the side swiftly and avoided the kick while grabbing the boy's wrists and lifting him over the ground. Connor's look of fury was replaced with one of complete surprise.

"Gaaah!" he yelled, trying to wrest himself free.

He tried to swing his legs to kick him again, but Zevran simply lifted him over one of the settees in the room, and dropped him over the overstuffed pillows. Without missing a beat, Connor crouched low and bounced up, lunging towards him. In a fluid movement, Zevran caught him midair, flipped him and plopped him down on the end of the bed.

Connor blinked, slightly mesmerized by the acrobatics.

"Do that again!" he cried out.

He charged Zevran once more with his fists balled up. The elf stepped out of his path as he was about to strike and lifted him up by the shirt, flinging him over his shoulder.

"Again! Again!" he shouted, an elated grin on his face as Zevran placed him back down on his feet.

Jayne looked on bewilderedly. Connor had always seemed a bit too sullen, too serious for his age. He was candid and spontaneous in his affections, but otherwise she had never seen him behave so much…like a little boy.

"We have to talk, young man," Zevran said sternly.

"What about?" Connor asked, his eyes wide in earnest concern.

"Show me how you make a fist again," he pointed, crouching down.

Connor lifted up his fist, his thumb ensconced in his folded fingers. Zevran examined it with a grave expression. He pressed his lips together and shook his head slowly.

"You make a fist like that and your fight is over before it begins. The only thing you'll be knocking out is your thumb," he explained, raising his own fist. "Like this, yes?"

Connor observed him, fascinated. He tried to imitate Zevran.

"Good. Now, that attack? A disaster," he continued.

"But Papa said I am a very powerful mage and I am going to learn how to use my magic properly to protect myself."

It was unfair, she felt, thinking of the life that awaited him at the Circle. Oren had been just a little younger than Connor. Mage or not, he was still a child.

"Oh, yes? So tell me: if someone strikes at you, do you think you will have a chance to conjure a spell before you are knocked out?" he asked skeptically. "Even mages benefit from knowing how to fight properly." He stood up and settled into a fighting stance, his chin tucked in and his fists positioned before him. "Do this," he told Connor.

"Zevran…" Jayne arched an eyebrow at him, urging caution.

Connor fixed his face into a very serious fighting expression, his feet apart, knees slightly bent, and his fists clenched as Zevran had shown him.

"That's right," Zevran said approvingly. "Hold it now," he ordered him, before walking around examining him. "Head down more, legs farther apart so you can shift your weight forward or backwards…" He adjusted the boy's shoulders and the height of his arms. "Now, pretend I am some bumbling templar who just cast something to prevent you from using your magic. Where are you going to strike me?" he tested him.

"Really!" Jayne exclaimed, surprised.

Connor was beyond ecstatic.

"Right in the gut!" he declared, aiming for Zevran's stomach.

Zevran deflected his punch.

"Wrong. You go for anything above the collarbone," he stated. "A real fight shouldn't last long— you want to knock your opponent out cold and you want to do it quick. Keep moving, protect your vulnerable points, and don't be afraid to strike hard. Think: carotid, windpipe, spinal cord," he pointed around his neck."

"By the Maker!" Jane interrupted nervously. "Are you trying to recruit him as your apprentice? That's hardly appropriate!"

"It is extremely appropriate," he said knowingly.

Connor was jumping up and down.

"But templars wear helms!" he exclaimed. "What if I can't get to his head and neck?"

"An excellent question!" Zevran turned back to his young friend. "But our Grey Warden has said 'no.'" He shrugged helplessly.

"What do you say we go downstairs and have breakfast together instead," she began, in a friendly tone, "and afterwards we could—"

"Tie chiffon bows and sniff flowers…" Zevran mocked.

Connor giggled.

"Come on! Show me how to fight the templar!" he begged. "Can he? Please, Jayne?" He made a moue that was pathetically cute.

She sighed, settling back into one of the settees, and braced herself for the remainder of the lesson: a hair raising tutorial on slamming the heel of the hand up into a visor, in order to fracture the nose, followed by brutal groin punches.

* * *

As they went down the hall together, Jayne didn't know what to make of the scene before her: Connor walked alongside Zevran, his hand in his, speaking animatedly.

 _He's just loving all this adulation,_ she tsked the elf crossly, as he basked in the admiration he was receiving from his newest fan.

"You should absolutely insist on learning to fight hand-to-hand. You can't rely just on magic," Zevran went on to a dutifully attentive Connor. "Magic isn't everything: did you know I recently single-handedly defeated a very powerful Dalish mage in the Brecilian Forest?" he declared proudly.

"Wow!" Connor murmured reverently.

Jayne frowned.

"That's not what happened!" she accused.

"Shhh!" Zevran waved her off dismissively. "Just because you were defenseless against him doesn't mean you get to interrupt the excellent adventure I am about to tell our young friend." He directed his attention back to Connor. "He was as big as three men!" Zevran began. "And he was able to cast elemental magic: lightning, fire bolts—"

" And shards of ice that, if I remember correctly, knocked a certain braggart down 'cold' in the middle of a fight!" Jayne added slyly.

"Oh, yes!" Zevran agreed. "That would've been Alistair," he informed Connor.

"Was he very scary?" Connor wondered.

"Terrifying!" Zevran confirmed.

The boy pondered this.

"Did he have fangs?"

"Bloodied ones," Zevran stated conspiratorially.

Connor even shivered from the excitement. Jayne rolled her eyes.

* * *

"Papa! I can fight! I can fight!" Connor announced to the Arl, who was drinking a cup of tea with the Arlessa as they entered the room. It was still early, and other than Wynne and Sten, the others hadn't awoken yet. They exchanged polite greetings and took their places around the table as the servants swiftly stepped forward to offer them freshly baked bread and pour hot tea into their cups.

"Look!" he insisted, positioning himself before his father in a clean fighting pose. The Arl examined him with surprised admiration.

"Not bad!" he chuckled. "And where did you learn that?"

"Master Arainai taught me!" he pointed.

Jayne almost spat out her tea at the 'master.'"

"It was just a few tips," Zevran said with false modesty. "All in good fun," he smiled.

"One of your many talents?" Isolde asked, entertained, observing her son pump his fists into the air before him with a fierce expression.

The Arl turned to her with a peeved demeanor. She innocently diverted her eyes.

The door opened and Teagan sauntered in, a smile emerging on his lips when he noticed Jayne seated at the table. Zevran's face clouded and he sat up straighter in his chair.

"Good morning!" he announced to all.

"Uncle! Uncle!" Connor cried out, running towards him. "I know how to fight!"

"Oh, do you now?" Teagan grinned. "Let's see what you can do: hit me with your hardest shot," he said good-naturedly, standing before the boy, despite the Arlessa's faint protests in the background.

Connor shifted his balance, sprung his arm back, and then flung it forward, engaging his torso for momentum. His fist landed a lightning-fast punch in Teagan's crotch.

The Bann mouthed a soundless cry before crumpling forward and staggering to the side. The Arl immediately rose from his chair to grasp his brother's arm.

"Holy Andraste!" he swore. "Connor! What were you thinking?"

"I'm sorry!" Connor offered penitently. "I thought Uncle would protect himself…"

Teagan groaned, settling into a chair, grimacing from the pain.

"I can't help but feel somewhat responsible," Zevran stated apologetically, "But in Connor's defense, as you consider his punishment, please keep in mind that the good Bann DID encourage him to hit…"

Isolde glanced up from her plate and shot a pleased, triumphant glance towards Zevran, offering him a gracious nod.

"Yes, my love," she said to the Arl. "I find that a firm reprimand in this case will suffice." She motioned to Connor, inviting him into her arms where she began to coddle him. "He is very sorry— aren't you, mon petit chouchou?" She cupped his cheeks soothingly while planting affectionate little kisses on his face.

The Arl, still clasping the arm of his temporarily incapacitated brother, was glaring at his wife, son, Zevran, and even her.

Jayne peeked at the elf out of the corner of her eyes.

The smirk on his face was mischievously jubilant.

"I really misjudged the boy," he whispered to her. "I'm actually quite fond of him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Few things are certain in life, but one of them is this: I've saved Connor and his ma in every single playthrough. I'm actually quite fond of him myself. ;-)
> 
> Next updates may a bit slower to appear thanks to other (less fun) obligations, but they are definitely in the works. 
> 
> Next up is the trip to Denerim (I know, I keep saying that...). What will Jayne learn there of Howe's influence over Loghain? Who will offer them support for the Landsmeet? Who will pose a deadly threat to one of Jayne's companions? Whose hair gets unmanageably frizzy in the humidity of Denerim's climate? But most of all, who is going to try and use expired coupons to buy gaudy knick-knacks at The Wonders of Thedas? Dun dun DUN!
> 
> Take care, friends! Be well and see you at the next update! ;-)


	44. Chapter 44

The day was spent on preparing for the trip. Their small party was ready to take off at a moment's notice, but on this particular journey they would not be traveling alone. This time there was safety in numbers, and the Arl's forces would be escorting them to the capital. Jayne and Alistair met with Eamon briefly, but he was easily distracted and often interrupted. For the most part, they all kept to themselves and tried to stay out of the way as preparations to depart were underway. At dinner few words were exchanged, a pervasive melancholy gripping Redcliffe castle. Later in the day, as Jayne wandered alone with Rune over the hills around the town, she pondered how it was that so much activity below could be tainted with so much grief.

It was the end of an era.

She slept poorly that last night, despite the comfortable bed. She sought refuge in the warmth of Zevran's arms, in the hypnotic way his chest rose and fell as he breathed, fast asleep. She willed herself to slumber, unsuccessfully. Her eyes opened often, her mind needled her with worry. When she had set off to renew Ferelden's alliances, she had been so focused on the daunting task that she had cast thoughts of the Landsmeet off to be pondered at some impossible future time. Now the Landsmeet loomed upon them and she would only have a few days to act before the fate of an entire nation was impacted by their actions.

Denerim was not a city she knew well. Her parents had been in agreement regarding her and Fergus' upbringing: they did not want them brought up in the court. The Cousland estate had been donated to the Chantry years before— her father had done so very deliberately, in order to alleviate some of the anxieties caused by the perceived threat his power as Teyrn of Highever represented to other nobles. Relinquishing their estate in Denerim symbolized a surrendering of claims to power at the capital.

She tried to remember: how many times had they stayed at the Howe estate when she and Fergus were smaller? She had resented her parents briefly for raising them away from the court. Back then, Denerim seemed fascinating, alluring. For a short-lived rebellious period, Jayne had wanted nothing more than to cultivate interesting friendships, attend the myriad social functions, and discover all the wondrous shops off the main market. She disliked being unfamiliar with the city, hated having to lodge with the Howes. Nathaniel, Delilah, and Thomas had their own bedrooms, their own friends, and their favorite places to visit in the city. They moved about affectedly, with a bored familiarity. She hated feeling foreign, as an inadequate outsider.

It wasn't until she was older, in her early teens, that she began to see Denerim in a different light. She had made some offhanded comment, in the insulting manner of adolescents, about how provincial Highever was compared to the capital.

"Highever cannot compare," she had concluded after a poorly delivered soliloquy on the differences.

That same day her father had dragged her down to the alienage.

"Look," he commanded her, as they stood overlooking a dilapidated square.

She had never seen so much squalor: shabby, rundown homes inhabited by many, equally shabby and broken people. Puddles of filth festered on the uneven streets, reeking of waste and swarming with flies. Beggars assembled before a Chantry building, crying out to them, imploringly. Their outstretched hands sought some solace from their misery: enough coin for a meal, their pleas went. People moved through the streets hurriedly, their eyes downcast.

"Have you ever seen such a thing in Highever?" her father mocked her words, even her tone of wonder, as he indicated the squalor before them. "The marvels of your city come at a very high price," her father had told her gravely.

That visit, she remembered, had marked the beginning of a disenchantment with Denerim and many conversations on the nature of a successful and fair rule.

 _I still had much to learn_ , she thought sadly.

Those thoughts on Denerim and Bryce led then to thoughts of Fergus and the tantalizing marker.

 _What if...what if?_ She tossed about in the sheets, restlessly. Zevran shifted sideways, mumbling something groggily at her activity.

The last time she'd been to Denerim had been a few years before. She'd accompanied her father to pay his final respects to a fellow noble he'd fought alongside during the Rebellion. At that point, Delilah had already gotten married, Nathaniel was off training in the Free Marches, and she and Bryce had stayed with other family friends. She remembered how she'd been put off by her age mates at court. They were pampered and spoiled for the most part, she found, and overly preoccupied with their attire, the latest fashions, with each other's comings and goings, who had said what, and who stood to gain the most power among them. Their world was insular, small. The vapidness of their mannerisms and talk gave her an inkling as to why her parents had been so careful about exposing them to life in Denerim.

It was a strange, unpleasant place, she thought. She did not mind it being unfamiliar and her feeling alien in it any longer.

"Warden," she heard Zevran utter softly in the dark. "Can you not sleep?" he asked.

"I can't," she confessed. "Did I wake you up?"

"Well, you are tossing about quite determinedly..." he said sleepily.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Bad dreams?" he asked.

"No," she sighed. "Not this time."

"Then what?" he yawned.

She lit the bedside candle and reached for small pitcher of water on the night table, pouring herself a cup. She took a sip under Zevran's bleary gaze and offered him some water, which he accepted, sitting up against the pillows to drink. She contemplated the disheveled hair, the half opened eyes as he smacked his lips, handing the cup back to her.

She craved his company, feeling uneasy around her own thoughts.

_Since I can't sleep and he is already awake…_

She took the cup, placed it down, and faced him, kissing him unexpectedly. He was surprised by her sudden approach, but welcomed her, returning her kiss. As their kisses and caresses became more intense, she tried to roll over him, but he stilled her by firmly placing his hand on her hip.

"What is this all about?" he asked curiously, seeking her eyes.

"Can't one give in to urges?"

"You are speaking to one who has championed such urges for most of his life…But I must ask: is there something else on your mind? Perchance something you are trying to avoid?"

She groaned.

"Why don't you just go with it?" she complained.

He tapped her over the hip and pulled away.

"Such restraint is a strange thing for me, Warden, believe me...But I can't help feeling like I am being used right now..."

"That is unfair," she said.

"I know," he replied. "I'm very concerned."

"You needn't be concerned about me—" she turned towards him.

"Mm? I was more concerned about _me_! Being used in such a libidinous manner was always one of my favorite things," he said impishly.

"Of all the times to develop a revulsion to seduction," she chided him.

"It's not a revulsion," he explained. "I can see you are upset... and I want to know why."

"If I tell you, will you let me use you as I please afterwards?" she asked coyly.

He laughed.

"I'm _very_ insulted. I suspect you only keep me around for one lurid reason..." he feigned outrage. He then slapped himself on the forehead, an incredulous expression on his face. "What nonsense am I saying? It's an excellent reason! See? This is what you do to me!" he accused her gamely.

"I am dreading the Landsmeet," she blurted out nervously. "I didn't think of how to proceed once we got to this point because it always seemed so impossible and far away...But now it is happening. In a few hours we leave for Denerim. It feels so final."

He remained quiet.

"Is it too late to want to be used shamelessly now?" he asked faintly.

She shook her head.

"The words "Denerim" and "Landsmeet" have ruined the moment."

"And now I am mired in bitter regret."

"Good!" she grumbled.

He rolled onto his back again.

"Warden, tell me something...Has anything you've plotted out worked according to your plans since all of this began?"

She snorted.

"Maker, no! It's almost the opposite."

She paused, realizing what he was getting at.

"Oh."

"Exactly." She could hear the smugness in his voice. "I have a feeling that no matter what happens in Denerim, you will find a way to handle it." He turned his head towards her and she felt his hand stroke her face. "Your character has determined the course of your actions all along. You are good on your feet. You should always consider various scenarios, but the best laid out plans crumble under pressure if the ones carrying it out aren't clear of mind."

"I'm hardly clear of mind," she countered.

"Oh, but you are. If you weren't, we wouldn't be having this discussion. You are perceptive, intuitive, cautious..."

"Not 'beautiful,' 'alluring,' 'irresistible?'" she flirted.

He remained quiet and her smile faded.

"You must be very upset," he finally said, drawing closer.

She closed her eyes as he gathered her into his arms.

"You are trying to avoid talking about this. You are behaving almost as badly as I do when I am trying to do the same thing," he chuckled.

"Except you are more successful at your seductions," she sighed.

"Perhaps...but with you I seem to prefer quality over quantity," he whispered.

"Oh! With _me_? I see... As opposed to... with Oghren?" she teased crossly.

"You know, you keep bringing that dwarf up to the point you are making me most concerned! There is an Antivan saying—"

"Of course there is!" she cried, amused.

"It goes thus: 'Where there is talk of dwarves during intimate moments, there is a desire for dwarves participating in those intimate moments.'"

"That is NOT a real saying!" she laughed, delighted.

"It is right now. Denerim, Landmseet, and Oghren have definitely killed any hope of romance tonight, Warden. The flames have been put out, stamped on, drenched beyond redemption."

She smiled at his indignation.

"It reminds me of a lady I seduced, back in Antiva..." he went on.

"Oh, and your talking about former conquests isn't a romance killer at all!" she protested.

"It's an appropriate eulogy for the departed opportunity," he continued. "Anyway, she would only let me bed her if her little dog was in the room. I swear, if he had been Rune's size rather than sewer rat dimensions, the rabid thing would have gleefully mauled me. Anytime we were...engaged in the act and she was…expressing her delight...the dog would start yapping loudly."

Jayne laughed lightly.

"I couldn't tell who was making more noise sometimes. It was such a racket, the entire household knew what we were up to."

"I doubt you were embarrassed," she said.

"I wasn't, but it certainly created an awkward situation when we had to return to the dinner party she was hosting. Her husband was quite mortified," he reminisced.

"I'm nervous about going back to Denerim," she told him. "It's not a place I remember fondly. I do not know what awaits us there."

"Can I make a confession?"

She looked at him inquisitively.

"I am nervous about going back to Denerim, too."

"You?" she wondered.

"We have been wandering about backwaters and the wilderness for a while now…my clothes are woefully out of style. What if I cross the gates in what is considered yesteryear's fashion?" he asked, a plaintive tone to his musing. "It'll be ruinous; I do have a reputation to uphold, you know."

Jayne pushed him playfully to the side of the bed.

"I am speaking in earnest," she insisted. "And you are mocking me!" she turned onto her side, facing away from him.

"Warden, Warden…" he approached her again, spooning her. "Have a little faith in yourself. You know not what awaits you at Denerim…Just as you did not know what lay in wait for you at Orzammar…the Brecilian Forest…Ferelden's Circle…Haven…" He squeezed her. "Or Alistair's stews…"

She smiled again.

"My point is…it'll all be there, everything waiting to spring into action…whether you fret or not…So don't fret. Too much. You stand on your two feet—if you falter, we stand behind you. I, especially, am right behind you," he said reassuringly. She clasped the arm that was bracing her, thankful. He nuzzled the back of her neck affectionately. "Because the view when I am standing behind you is truly inspirational…"

She turned her head, brushing her cheek enticingly over his, hopefully. He sat up, leaning over her slightly and blew out the candle.

"And now... You must go to sleep, amora," he whispered, settling in beside her. "Tomorrow will be a trying day," he ordered her, rapping her lightly on the head before taking her back into his sheltering embrace.

* * *

They began their march to Denerim early in the morning, crossing the top of the hill leading to the wide, main road. Jayne and Alistair stationed themselves aside, watching the waves of soldiers march past them, the Arl's banner hoisted high, flags and standards rippling in the wind. It was a sight to behold. All of Redcliffe's citizens had amassed in the streets to wave them off. In their faces a singular hope.

Her eyes wandered to Alistair's tense expression and she placed her hand on his shoulder, encouragingly.

"Have faith, Alistair," she smiled warmly. "We need to trust we'll know what to do when the time comes."

His eyes shifted to hers and he offered her a small nod. He then turned his stare back to the scene silently unfolding across the road from where they stood.

All of the village of Redcliffe proper spread out beneath their gaze- the thatched rooftops zigzagged over stuccoed exteriors in the landscape below. Farther away, still dim and dreamlike in the early morning light, the castle kept its fabled watch over the village. The Arlessa stood still before the drop in the side of the road, staring wistfully at the village. Jayne and Alistair observed as the Arl approached her and placed an arm around her shoulder, drawing her close to him. They exchanged a knowing stare, no words passing between them, and Jayne felt a pang in her heart when Isolde bowed her proud head, resting it dejectedly on her husband's chest. Ahead, Connor let go of Zevran's hand and wandered back to his mother and father. For a brief moment, as carts, carriages and horses crossed between them, Jayne watched as the three clung to each other. They looked like so many other Fereldan families she had seen since everything had begun: displaced, disheartened. At that moment, she realized, watching Connor embrace both his mother and father, his small, slender arms barely encircling their waists, that the future was as uncertain and as frightening for them as it was for her.

She also watched as the soldiers walked by, their expressions downcast, their steps heavy.

"This won't do…They march as if to their graves," Alistair murmured. "Come with me," he urged her, walking towards their horses. As they mounted, Alistair pulled ahead, impatiently, his horse cantering to the forefront of the battalion, gathering attention to himself as he moved forward. She followed him, unsure as to what he was planning. He exchanged a few words with the Lieutenant Commander, who nodded and agreed to fall behind their horses. The procession came to a grinding halt before them.

Then, all was silent except for the sound of the birds cawing overhead. Jayne examined Alistair out of the corner of her eyes and waited a bit apprehensively for him. His stare was hard- defiant as it fell over the troops. She heard him draw in a deep breath before he spoke.

"Today," his voice bellowed forth, "we march together to Denerim. Let this day not be forgotten, let this day not be in vain," his voice echoed clearly, unwavering. "The Archedemon comes," he continued, gravely. "And while he may herald destruction, he must not know how poor his choice to emerge in our lands is, for we, men and women of Redcliffe, _we_ are all the good Ferelden is made of."

Jayne observed the mesmerized crowd.

"We are no strangers to strife, no innocents to war. We know the great cost of battle… but we also know the greater cost of inaction and cowardice." He paused. "We are warriors: sons and daughters of those before us who defied Tevinter!" he shouted boldly. A few rousing cries of approval erupted among the front ranks. "Who defeated the mighty Orlesian empire," he stated, with a pointed nod towards Jayne. More shouts of approval broke out. "And now we ride to reclaim our capital and steer it back to its true course. All of Thedas will someday know the debt they owe Ferelden. All of Thedas will know the valor of its people." He stopped and looked at the soldiers with as much wonder as they looked at him. " And they shall know it began here, today, in Redcliffe," he cried, over the growing din of cheering and armor clattering. Jayne saw him steer his reins towards the standard bearer and seize Ferelden's banner from his hands, the two scarlet heraldic mabari rampant featured over the yellow field undulating in the morning breeze. He rode up to Jayne, and steering his horse so that it remained sideways, so that the soldiers could still see him, handed it to her.

"Warden Cousland, lead us forth!"

Without a moment of hesitation, Jayne took the banner and faced the troops. No one noticed she blinked just an instant longer than ordinary, summoning the image of her father and brother for guidance.

_It begins. All we have fought for._

"We march for Denerim!" she cried out, her voice passionate and fierce, guiding her horse's reins around and falling into a pace that on foot would be equivalent to a steady, quick time march.

Behind her she heard a rallying roar that echoed over the hills and sent chills down her spine. She gripped the banner's pole tightly, proudly, in her gloved hand. Alistair rode beside her, and they both faced forward, their gazes stern and focused ahead.

"Maker, that worked!" he said in a low voice to her, a half grin emerging as he risked a quick glimpse at her. "Thank goodness for all those history lessons at the Chantry…" He paused. "Oh, no…You have that…that look on your face again…" he groaned.

"My Lord King," she said reverently, overcome with emotion.

He smirked, but quickly suppressed it, a grin spreading over his lips instead.

 _I will live to see it, or die making it so,_ she thought with renewed determination.


	45. Chapter 45

**Chapter 45**

 

"The Landsmeet will occur once the majority of nobles reaches Denerim. Word of it has spread and, for the time being, you are safe from any direct attacks. Loghain must be aware of how closely he is being watched now…and how much interest you have garnered." Eamon had told Jayne and Alistair earlier, the flames casting a flickering orange glow against his somber face as they spoke at camp.

The journey to Denerim was unfurling uneventfully, something Jayne felt little relief over. The roads remained deserted and flanked by abandoned villages. People had fled to find shelter behind the fortified walls of the main towns in the Bannorn, escaped further up north or westward, abandoning Ferelden completely. Fields grew wild as they remained untended. During their march, they had encountered a few refugees and a small band of merchants. The merchants had been dwarven—something she'd noticed made Bodhan puff out his chest.

"Darkspawn are part of our daily lives even when there isn't a Blight," he'd pointed out. "It's business as usual for as long as possible!" he'd said proudly.

Everyone seemed to become more withdrawn, more prone to reflective moods as they traveled, but as their arrival to the capital became more imminent, they seemed to revive somewhat. Jayne said little and watched the fire crackle and split the logs with a rash of sparks cast into the air. She believed they were taking the right course of action and was grateful to Eamon for staking everything on their mission, but a darkness hovered over her thoughts, and Rendon Howe figured in most of them. How would he show himself, she wondered? Eamon's reports had stated that he was given several new titles, including Teyrn of Highever. The mere thought of her father's title now associated to Howe caused her a profound, visceral revulsion. She found her fists clenching just at the thought of Highever under the governance of such a monster. Such painful, angry thoughts had become more frequent and harder to dismiss as they approached the capital. She found some relief in the company of the others, in listening to their reassuring bickering, and Rune's cold nose nuzzling her hand, nudging it demandingly, seeking for attention and affection.

"One more day until we reach Denerim," Leliana mused aloud. "It'll be good to be in a real city once again."

"I fail to see why you are so excited," Zevran scoffed. "The only difference between the middle of nowhere and Denerim is that Denerim has more Fereldans per square foot."

They all glanced at him.

"You do realize you find yourself surrounded by Fereldans." Alistair cautioned.

"I'm Qunari," Sten stated.

"Lest we forget…" Alistair sighed.

"Denerim can't be as provincial as you like to portray it because even the Crows do business there," Leliana challenged him.

"My dear, any Crow assigned to Denerim is there because he is either in trouble and trying to lie low or because someone back home was angry and wanted to teach him a lesson. Anyone appointed to Denerim treats it as if it were an exile, I tell you," Zevran explained, crouching low and poking at the fire.

"I really fail to see it," Alistair squinted. "You know: all that charm you supposedly possess? Must be something lost in translation."

"Denerim is the birthplace of Andraste," Leliana said offendedly.

"And little has changed there since," Zevran quipped.

"No, tell us how you  _really_  feel!" Alistair goaded him. "Don't hold back."

"I think Denerim absolutely deserves you as its king," Zevran said with a provocative wink.

Jayne had been listening to Zevran, Alistair, and Leliana argue as she rubbed Rune behind his ear and stared out at all the small tents pinpointing the landscape around them when a bloodcurdling shriek shook her from her trance-like state.

It had erupted from Morrigan's tent.

Without needing to exchange any words, all four of them bolted to the entrance, weapons unsheathed and firmly ensconced in their hands.

"Morrigan!" Jayne yelled. She could see, out of the corner of her eyes, a small contingency of the Arl's soldiers approach them, at the ready.

"Go away, all of you!" Morrigan's voice roared.

"Are you all—" Jayne began asking tensely.

Zevran simply bent down and slipped inside the tent, followed by a shrugging Alistair.

"…Right," she completed, watching Leliana disappear behind the flaps.

She finally entered, finding Morrigan sitting crosslegged on her matt, the infamous grimoire resting, shut, for once, on her lap.

"I told you, that scary book was bound to give you nightmares," Zevran admonished her.

"Well, it doesn't appear that there is anything in here that would need defending from you," Alistair concluded.

Morrigan said nothing, uncharacteristically. She remained disturbingly quiet, staring stonily at the grimoire.

"Leave. All of you," she finally said tersely, between her teeth.

"You just made us all jump in our places with that scream. I'm afraid you owe us—" Alistair said.

"I owe no one anything," she hissed.

"You can at least tell us what is wrong," Leliana tried to reason.

"Well, you see, to begin with, there are four people trying to occupy a tent meant for two," she said sharply.

"Yes, well, I can assist with that…and next time you do your daily affirmations, keep it lower," Alistair said impatiently, edging his way out.

Morrigan's eyes followed him and remained fixed where he had exited her tent.

"Glad to see you live to look down on everyone yet another day," Zevran smirked, extending her an exaggerated florid bow before leaving also.

Leliana continued to observe Morrigan with sympathy. They waited for a few moments in silence.

"There. Now that they're gone, do you want to tell us?" she offered conspiratorially.

"No!" Morrigan cried out. "Stop with your coddling—I am no weakling."

"I was merely trying to help," Leliana uttered defensively. "I was asking out of consideration."

"I don't need your help!" she spat contemptuously. "Take yourself and your Chantry-imbued pitying ways with you!"

Without a further word, Leliana bolted out, insulted. Jayne inhaled deeply. The quibbling was not unusual—it had always been that way—but there was a rawer edge to their exchanges, a lower tolerance. She could see them straining from it all.

"I'll leave you be," Jayne told her calmly, eager to return to her own tent.

Morrigan placed the grimoire down beside her and shifted on her matt.

"Jayne, there is something you should know," she called out.

She remained frozen at the entrance, her back turned. Morrigan did not speak further, and she finally turned, curious to see what was happening. She found the mage's gaze downcast, her eyes blinking, her countenance grave.

"The thing about magic…There is always a price to pay. Nothing comes from…nothing. There is always an exchange. It's the law of balances. Always. I thought I was free. But if I am to achieve what I wish, I will no longer be so. Such is the price of the wisdom I seek. Still, it is a choice. I could say I was doing it for your sakes…but it most definitely isn't the only reason… I only wish the price weren't so high," she bemoaned.

Jayne examined her face in confusion.

_What is she talking about?_

"I'm afraid I don't follow," Jayne stated apologetically.

"In time," Morrigan uttered. "I will tell you soon. There may be another way—I hope. I'll only know once we arrive in Denerim," she replied.

"Why did you scream like that?" Jayne asked abruptly.

"I did not like what I learned from Flemeth's grimoire tonight," was all she replied.

Jayne nodded wearily and leaned down to exit the tent. Morrigan raised her light green eyes at Jayne, her gaze hard and filled with reproach.

"Why couldn't you have been born a man? That would have made it easier," she lamented, peering through the open flaps into the wide, black night.

 


	46. Chapter 46

The sky looming over Denerim was the shade of untempered steel; dark clouds churned stormily in the horizon and rain that was still light at that point misted the road beneath Jane's boots. Ahead, the Arl processed decisively under the reassuring aegis of his title and counting on the protection the public announcement of his being the force behind the summons for the Landsmeet afforded them. The majority of the Arl's troops pitched camp in the outskirts of the city, bolstered by the joining of forces with other nobles' armies. Various banners flapped in the wind overhead as they had marched decisively towards the gates, at last. The message was unequivocally clear: despite having called the Landsmeet, Eamon wasn't a solitary detractor.

"Safety in numbers is a delusion," Zevran noted as they awaited to enter the city. "This is the perfect opportunity to deploy an assassin."

"I am sure he is aware of it," Jayne mentioned. "It is why he had Isolde and Connor sent elsewhere halfway here."

"Hrmph. I thought it was because he was resentful of how much his son and wife appreciated my skills and attributes," Zevran boasted cockily.

"Speaking of delusions," Alistair added, unslinging his heavy pack from his shoulders and resting it by his feet tiredly.

"What? You mock me, but that boy can now defend himself properly."

"We should all be so lucky to graduate from Zevran's Finishing School," Morrigan teased.

"What can I say? I am compelled to share the bounty of my wisdom—not all of us can get by on wit and looks alone," he retorted cheekily, shrugging with false modesty.

"Do we know where they went?" Wynne asked quietly, staring at the impressive city gates soaring up high before them.

"No. That's something only the Arl and the detail he sent to escort them know," Jayne stated, nervously fingering the tassel on her sword's scabbard. She kept her attention on the exchange unfurling ahead, observing the Arl engrossed in conversation with some undoubtedly high-ranked officer braced to deal with the Arl's impressive retinue.

When they were finally cleared to enter the city, the market came to a complete halt as they disruptively marched towards the Guerrin estate, in the heart of the city.

Jayne began to get her bearings, recognizing various landmarks: beyond the large city gates, many familiar landmarks, from the out-of-place Orlesian styled buildings to the various religious statues glorifying Andraste, and several impressive monuments to Ferelden's convoluted history.

"What do you think, Zevran?" Leliana goaded him, pointing at a pious statue of Andraste standing across a tavern door, as if beckoning to sinners.

He snickered derisively, but Jayne picked up on a subtle change in her normally unflappable companion. She noticed his body tensed, triggered as if prepared to spring into swift action at any moment. His gold eyes scrutinized the crowd with a singular focus and he often lifted his gaze uneasily to verify activity on the rooftops. They were drawing too much attention—not only because their entrance into the city had caused quite the commotion, but because as spectators' eyes browsed past the military uniforms and banners often settled interestedly on their small party, even as it attempted to remain inconspicuous. Sten alone, based on his height and muscle, was targeted with the lion's share of comments as they filed past the multitude of spectators. She could hear the loose and often puzzled commentary hurtled anonymously towards them:  _foreigners_ ,  _Qunari_ ,  _apostates_ — but she also heard the crowd rustle with excitement, marveling at her, at Alistair; the Arl's well planted informers had spread the news of Alistair's heritage.

"Grey Wardens!" she heard, in fervent, reverent tones.

And "King Maric's rightful heir!"

It was with no small amount of relief that they reached the Arl's estate. From inside the heavily guarded gates, Eamon's Captain, who had been dispatched with several other soldiers to ensure that there would be no unpleasant surprises awaiting them, saluted them upon their arrival into the courtyard with unmistakable satisfaction.

Eamon's estate was larger and grander than any other she had ever set foot in at Denerim. The courtyard alone conveyed a certain genteel peace and sheltering solitude in the heart of the chaotic, bustling city despite the heavily armed guards protecting the gates.

"The servants will escort you to your quarters," Eamon began graciously after conferring for a long moment with his seneschal. He glanced at her and Alistair pointedly. "Once you are settled, I should like to have a word with you."

Jayne did not need to peer over at Alistair to sense the twinge of apprehension at the Arl's words. They had been watching his face, observing his brow furrow, his expression harden, as his seneschal had briefed him.

Inside the estate, they crossed ornate rooms headed towards a wide, sweeping staircase, a flurry of servants flanking them obsequiously.

"You are to be lodged on the second floor," the seneschal explained, gesturing for the servants to proceed with their belongings.

He stared at Sten.

"I am afraid you will find the bed too short," he offered apologetically.

"Tough luck, eh?," Oghren tapped the Qunari on the arm. "Too bad you can't have the bottom half of my bed added to yours," he snorted, amused at his own comment.

"That's a good idea," Sten stated, impressed for once. "Remove the beds' footboards and the join the two ends," he said to the seneschal.

"We shall try that," the seneschal responded, masking his disconcertedness with a small bow as they reached their respective quarters.

"I was only teasin'," Oghren yelled. "If I had to play footsie with someone all night, I'd rather it was with one of the ladies," he added sullenly.

"It's fine. I don't feel slighted," Alistair joked.

"Do not attempt to play with my feet," Sten warned.

"Next time stuff your mouth with your beard; it will do you good," Morrigan provoked Oghren as she breezed past them towards her bedroom.

Jayne entered the comfortable, spacious room she had been given. A fire crackled livelily, casting a warm, comforting glow over her and chasing the unshakeable chill of the raw day away. She unloaded her pack heavily onto the ground, by the bed, and emerged in the hall moments later, eager to rejoin Eamon below. She made her way with practiced efficiency, committing the layout of the estate to memory.

"Always have your escape planned, no matter where you go," her mother had instructed her long ago.

She passed austere family portraits and lavishly detailed tapestries depicting religious motifs in somber threads. The rooms' charms had a studied air to them: the strong odor of wood polish filled her nostrils. She found Eamon waiting below at the estate's foyer, sorting through calling cards and a small pile of letters.

"If we defeat Loghain here, the rest of the nation will follow us," Eamon told them once Alistair had joined them. "By calling the Landsmeet, I've struck the first blow. The advantage," he said pointedly, "for the moment, is ours. He will have little choice but to show himself, to oppose us directly," he concluded with a shrewd glance at a yellowed, antique lithograph of the city displayed on the wall facing them. "He will strike back at us. The only question that remains is: how soon?"

Eamon proceeded to inform them of the various nobles who had already pledged their support. They couldn't have been engrossed in their conversation for more than ten minutes before a harried sentinel erupted into the room.

"Your Grace," he saluted nervously.

Eamon put down the letter he had been holding to examine the man.

"Yes?"

"There are visitors at the gates requesting an audience immediately."

Eamon frowned.

"I have only arrived. Relay my regrets and inform them I will be holding—"

"It's the Regent and his retinue," the man blurted out shakily.

Eamon's face registered momentary surprise. To Jayne his words just moments earlier acquired an uneasy prescience.

 _It is as if he were casting an unfortunate spell,_  she thought, an unpleasant shiver seizing her.

"How many?" Eamon inquired tensely, his eyes narrowing.

"He commanded his armed escort remain outside the gates; he is accompanied by two others: Ser Ca—"

"Are they armed?" he interrupted.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"So are we," Alistair remarked, "That is, if you will spare us your weapons for a moment," he addressed the guardsman hastily.

Eamon lifted his hand cautiously at him.

"Alert the guards outside to be at the ready. Have Lawrence introduce the party as normal," he instructed.

As the man disappeared beyond the door, Eamon gave them a knowing glance.

"We must be a larger threat than I expected. He's already come to us."

"Delay them a bit—give us enough time to arm ourselves," Alistair argued.

"There is no need," Eamon stated coolly. "He does this for show." He smirked. "I know the man well—he is a firm believer in intimidating the enemy, letting fear and insecurity wear down his foes early in battle. Swords are useless in beating him at this game."

Jayne stared at the door stonily. She wished Eamon hadn't interrupted the guard as he attempted to list who accompanied Loghain. Even as she genuinely wondered who flanked the regent in that unexpected visit, a dull, unwelcome certainty plagued her.

The Seneschal slipped between the door.

"The Royal Regent, Loghain Mac Tir, Teyrn Howe, and Ser Cauthrien," he announced in a resounding baritone.

Her suspicions had proved correct. She faltered, felt herself go faint, her limbs feeling dangerously limp, as if deprived of will and strength, for a few harrowing heartbeats. But she held still, collecting her wits as she stood beside the Arl.

The door opened to reveal three figures silhouetted against the outside light.

 _Teyrn_ , she realized, nauseated, bile rising to her throat unpleasantly at such an affront.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Confession time: Part of the reason why chapters for this fic have not been coming out as quickly has to with the fact I have simply forgotten exactly what happens once the Warden goes to Denerim for the Landsmeet. I didn't forget the obvious stuff (Archdemon? Check!), but couldn't remember if this event happened before that one. I had looked at my unplayed game wondering if I could talk myself into yet another playthrough, or even replaying the game from a previously saved point, but didn't want to get distracted in cataloguing so many details...Fortunately Saint Google came to my aid and offered succor by the grace of YouTube. I love everyone who has taken the time to upload their entire playthroughs. Memory has been jostled, inspiration rekindled...Forward, always...
> 
> Eamon's dialogue on Loghain is from the game. Which I do not own. ;-)
> 
> Thank you for your patience and support! It is deeply appreciated--always!


	47. Chapter 47

“Wardens,” the Arl said very softly, almost under his breath. “Do not lose sight of our goal," he warned them very calmly.

 

She could feel Alistair’s preoccupied stare upon her even as Loghain approached them, the clanging of heavy armor punctuating their strides.

 

_He’s afraid I will go as mad as a battle-crazed Chasind warrior._

 

When she and Fergus had been small, they had reenacted fabled battles between the Alamarri and the Chasind. She always played the Alamarri: it was what she knew, who she hailed from. Fergus, however, would run around wildly, shirt off, dabs of mud raked across his features, tackling her to the ground, gloating over his victory as he sat upon her until their mother would come racing into the room, simultaneously horrified and furious, yelling at both of them to stop. Once she had asked who had begun a particularly riotous commotion that had resulted in a dashed table and a cracked vase.

 

Jayne had held her mother’s gaze, not flinching, despite the threats she’d made that day. Fergus, though, had faltered, looking down, avoiding her eyes at all costs.

 

“For all your bravado, my son, it is your sister who is the more spirited Chasind today. Among them, a warrior who averts his gaze during an oath or during an inquest is immediately sentenced to death,” she had explained. “It’s a mark of integrity and respect! Always look another in the eye, be it friend or foe!” she’d instructed them.

 

They had both been punished, nevertheless, but she had never forgotten her mother’s words.

 

It was Howe she reserved her inscrutable gaze for, as he approached them, a few steps behind Loghain, like a sickly shadow dispensing all manner of sinister advice. She noted that he deliberately and conspicuously avoided looking at her.

 

_A mark of integrity and respect: neither of which are Howe’s province_ , she remarked to herself. 

 

The Arl greeted Loghain, silvery tongued, fox-sly.

 

“Loghain. This is an honor, that the regent would find time to greet me personally,” he said.

 

Loghain examined both Alistair and her with disdain before redirecting his attention to the Arl, standing staunchly before them.

 

“How could I not welcome a man so important as to call every lord in Ferelden away from his estates while a Blight claws at our land?” the man retorted with sarcastic obsequiousness. 

 

_Breathe_ , she had to tell herself, her jaw clenched as she took in Howe’s sharp, angular features.

 

“The Blight is why I am here. With Cailan dead, Ferelden must have a king to lead it against Darkspawn,” Eamon continued. 

 

“Ferelden,” Loghain interrupted more forcefully, pointing a hand at him, “has a strong leader: its queen. And I lead her armies,” he explained ominously.

 

Jayne quelled the impulse to scoff, the spell that bound her stare to Howe momentarily broken.

 

 

“If Anora rules, let her speak for herself.”

 

Loghain betrayed profound surprise at being spoken to by her, turning his back to Ser Cauthrien, who had visibly bristled at her speaking so confrontationally to Loghain.

 

“And who is this, Eamon?” he asked, appraising her with a dismissive sneer. “Some new stray you picked up on the road?”

 

A cruel smile crossed his lips.

 

“And here I thought it was only royal bastards you played nursemaid to.”

 

“Well, you are admitting the ‘royal’ part. That’s a start,” Eamon replied shrewdly, without skipping a beat.

 

_Direct attacks never work, Pup._ _Remember: to vanquish the enemy, you must target his stability, be it physical or mental._ She remembered her father’s lessons, his solid frame bent over their war table as he contemplated her with his battle weary eyes.

 

_He knows exactly who I am. This is mere toying with me._ She caught Alistair shifting his weight to his other leg. _Toying with…us._

 

She took a deep breath and trained her stare back on Howe.

 

“I,” she said, with a slight nod, as if introducing herself, “am a witness to your crimes…” She addressed Howe in particular, but strategically shifted her address to Loghain, adding, “in Ostagar.”

 

Loghain’s face seized in a quiet fury.

 

“Your should curb your tongue! This is my city, and no safe place to speak treason. For anyone.”

 

She did not flinch. Her eyes remained fixed on Howe, who pretended to glare at Eamon.

 

Perhaps Loghain mistook the absence of a confrontational stare towards him as a reprieve, a small show of cowed respect. He began to pace before them while addressing Eamon once again.

 

“There is talk that your illness left you feeble, Eamon. Some worry that you may no longer be fit to advise Ferelden…”

 

Eamon crossed his arms imposingly.

 

“‘Illness?’” he exclaimed contemptuously. “Why not call your poison by its true name? Not everyone at the Landsmeet will cast aside their loyalties as easily as you and these…sycophants!”

 

She felt a small jolt course through her, surprised at how Eamon’s words stoked her own anger.

 

_So much for the calm he’d urged earlier._

 

Loghain smirked.

 

“How long you’ve been gone from court, Eamon! Don’t you recognize Rendon Howe, Arl of Amaranthine and Teyrn of Highever?” he announced, wandering closer to his advisor.

 

_But of course. Loghain is, after all, Ferelden’s most decorated general,_ Jayne realized with a frown. _No direct attacks._

 

Her blood coursed cold, even as beads of perspiration emerged on her forehead. Loghain had paused, very meaningfully, right before Howe. Perhaps it was a gesture to lend the man some courage, for at last he raised his eyes to her.

 

“And current Arl of Denerim, after Urien’s unfortunate fate at Ostagar. Truly, it is an embarrassment of riches,” he stated with unforgivable unctuous malice.

 

Her head swirled. There was no way out; she could not demand justice. The one she had to petition it from had put a price on her head. Any expectation of any semblance of fairness was futile. 

 

_Debts are best collected by steady hands, lest precious coin be foolishly spilled,_ she repeated to herself.

 

A tense moment ensued, as if they expected her and Eamon to overplay their hand.

 

Instead, Jayne awarded them with a sanguine, “When does the Landsmeet begin?”

 

Ser Cauthrien was the one who broke the impasse, stepping forward in a threatening manner, issuing a warning.

 

“Don’t interrupt, churl! Your betters are talking.”

 

_Apparently, someone ought to lend Ser Cauthrien here the same military strategy handbook we all studied._

 

Loghain quickly intervened, peeved.

 

“Enough, Cauthrien. This is not the time or place,” he hissed.

 

She stepped down, casting a poisonous glance her way.

 

Loghain addressed Eamon in a more solicitous tone.

 

“I had hoped to talk you down from this rash course, Eamon. Our people are frightened. Our king is dead. Our land is under siege.”

 

Jayne could barely make out his words. Her eyes had begun to cloud, her head rushing from the roar of blood pumping through her.

 

“We must be united now, if we are to endure this crisis,” he insisted. “Your own sister, Queen Rowan, fought tirelessly to see Ferelden restored. Would you see her work destroyed?” he challenged Eamon. “You divide our nation and weaken our efforts against the Blight with your selfish ambitions to the throne.”

 

His words echoed mawkishly in her mind: _You divide our nation…weaken our efforts …selfish ambitions to the throne…_

 

_Why, those could be our words to him, verbatim. How does he possibly expect to defeat this Blight without the Grey Wardens?_

 

“You are the one who divided Ferelden,” she found herself uttering.

 

“I was not talking to you,” Loghain quipped with surprising viciousness. 

 

She stilled her tongue.

 

“I cannot forgive what you’ve done, Loghain,” Eamon revealed. “Perhaps the Maker can…but not I. Our people deserve a king of the Theirin bloodline. Alistair,” Eamon indicated, causing him to start in a way Jayne knew well was contained panic, “will be the one to lead us to victory in this Blight.”

 

“Oh, is that all I have to do? No pressure…” he muttered with his customary boyish exasperation.

 

_Hush, Alistair!_ _Maker_! _Now is not the time…_ Jayne thought tensely. 

 

Loghain did not seem to hear him and instead marched up to Eamon, staring at him disdainfully.

 

“The Emperor of Orlais also thought I could not bring him down.”

 

_You are not pitted against Orlesians. We are Fereldan. You of all people should know what you are up against_ , she wanted to say. But she remained silent.

 

His eyes blazed.

 

“Expect no more mercy than I showed him. There is nothing I would not do for my homeland.”

 

With that, Loghain turned on his heels, departing the room abruptly. Ser Cauthrien and Howe quickly followed him. The Arl, Alistair and she remained rooted in place as Loghain’s party crossed the threshold and the heavy doors shut behind them.

 

It was Eamon who first stirred.

 

“Well, that was…bracing. I didn’t expect Loghain to show himself quite so soon.”

 

“And to think he brought no cake or other welcoming gifts,” Alistair mumbled. “Rude.”

 

_Nerves_ , she thought, examining him out of the corner of her eyes. _We will have to talk about that. He is too unguarded. It could become a problem._

 

She was distracted as Eamon began speaking about his sister, cursing Loghain for his deceit, remembering him as a farm boy swearing fealty to Maric on one knee, bemoaning the fall of one he had once respected. She nodded politely, allowing Alistair to shoulder the heft of the conversation. All she could see was Howe’s waxen, ratlike features mocking her. She replayed again and again the encounter, searching for something, something that would give her an inkling to his state of spirit, to any burden on his conscience he might have been concealing. The beady black eyes revealed nothing.

 

“Jayne,” Alistar called to her as Eamon moved towards the stairwell resolutely.

 

She stirred from her thoughts, disappointed, ashamed. Howe had been there, right before her, as if offered on a platter, and she had delayed justice, revenge…for what? What had stilled her hand from seeking righteous retribution?

 

“We need eyes and ears in the city. Loghain has been here for months. The roots of all his schemes must begin here. The sooner we find them, the better we can turn them to our advantage,” Eamon went on.

 

He glanced over his shoulder, past them and towards the door.

 

“Go have a look around and see what you can turn up. Better yet, find the nobles who have arrived for the Landsmeet. Test the waters; see how many will support us.”

 

He began to climb, pausing halfway.

 

“When you’re ready to talk strategy, come upstairs to my sitting room. We can lay out our plans for the Landsmeet then,” he suggested. 

 

“Are you all right?” Alistair turned to her with concern, once Eamon was out of earshot.

 

“I don’t know. I don’t know what to feel,” she admitted. “Alistair—what are we doing? There is nothing I’ve wanted more than to slit that monster’s throat. Somehow I talked myself out of extracting revenge…for what, again?” she asked, anger slowly surging through her. 

 

“You are not all right,” Alistair said gravely. 

 

Jayne slammed her fist into the side of the stairwell.

 

“I wasted the opportunity—perhaps the only one I will get to have. Who knows what Howe has up his sleeve? Who knows if he’ll even be in Denerim tomorrow,” she lamented as they reached the top of the wide staircase.

 

“Don’t worry, Warden,” Zevran surprised them as he emerged stealthily from a shadowy corner of the balustrade to join them.

 

“Maker! Don’t do that!” Alistair rubbed his chest uneasily. “This whole place has me jumpy,” he confessed, peering around the quiet hallway extending before them. 

 

“As it should. It is crawling with informants,” Zevran stated casually. He turned to Jayne again. “A man as bloated with power as Rendon Howe is cannot move without leaving large footsteps, no matter how many palms he greases,” he reassured her. “Besides, he is not about to jump ship when he is so close to consolidating his power…”

 

“Were you hiding there all along?” Jayne wondered, peering down the darkened corner where he’d laid in wait for them.

 

“Of course,” he stated, patting his daggers. “I wasn’t sure you would be needing me,” he grinned meaningfully. 

 

“Hmmm. All the way from up here,” Alistair mocked him. “Very useful.”

 

“I was but a foolish hand gesture or nod away,” he reassured them. ‘Fortunately, they did no such thing as to merit my fine acquaintance.”

 

“Ready to come barreling through to our defense, were you?” Alistair smirked.

 

“Well, to our Warden’s,” he declared with a cheeky eyebrow arch.

 

“Right. I forgot. Only one oath of fealty per customer can be valid at any one time.”

 

“Don’t be sad, Alistair. I’d come save you, too. After you got slapped around a few times. Builds character,” he concluded. 

 

“It would have been fun to watch you issue Loghain a refund for your services,” Alistair teased. 

 

“Indeed…I wonder if he would accept it all in copper coins?” Zevran mused. 

 

Jayne remained perfectly still, her stomach lurching at the thought she had missed the opportunity, missed her chance to bring down Howe and avenge her family. She caught the tail end of Alistair’s rant.

 

“… ‘meet the nobles’ now. Go meet the nobles, go meet the paragon, meet the cultists, meet the werewolves. I am good and traumatized by all these meetings,” Alistair grumbled.

 

“Why don’t you go back down the hall to our quarters and fill the others in?” Zevran suggested to Alistair, while eyeing Jayne. “You can begin by briefing Leliana—she’s in the hallway, waiting.”

 

Alistair leaned forward and glanced down the empty passageway.

 

“I don’t see—“

 

“Ah, but she sees you! Let’s see if you can outwit her!” Zevran pat his shoulder cheerfully, pushing him towards the hallway. 

 

She and Zevran stood wordlessly before each other, standing together by the stairs until he whisked her into the corner he had been hiding in. She had been about to complain when she heard heavy footfalls stop right where they had been standing.

 

“Odd,” a deep voice stated. “I could have sworn they were right here just a few moments ago.”

 

“Anything interesting?” another voice asked.

 

“I’d like to know where they plan on going next. The Arl thinks a few of them might even venture out into town tonight.”

 

“Blasted—I hope not. Every single spy in Denerim is perched over the estate tonight,” the speaker sighed. “Makes our job that much tougher.”

 

They waited until the soldiers, or agents, or spies—she didn’t know or care which—had left the area. She could sense the tension in his touch, the worry that caused him tofeel somewhat unfamiliar to her. He was in Antivan assassin mode, she realized, her eyes taking in the cold, steely expression even as he held her beside him protectively.

 

“You handled yourself very well down there,” he told her in a hushed tone. “I am willing to bet everything that Howe is doubling his personal security the moment he gets home. Congratulations, Warden: he will not sleep easily tonight.”

 

She exhaled heavily.

 

“What threat do I pose? I just bid my time; kept my mouth shut so I didn’t risk hearing anything that would upset me further,” she recognized. 

 

“Perhaps…But he doesn’t know that. Think about it: you keep leaping towards your doom, and somehow emerging victorious each time…and with every triumph, you edge closer and closer to him. Trust me, on this one: he is terrified. Each time he looked at you, he might as well have been confronting a ghost who has come to collect on a broken pact.”

 

“I want him to suffer,” she said, an angry glint in her eye. “I don’t even know myself, Zevran. Where is it coming from? It’s deafening, this clamoring for his head,” she told him. 

 

Worry flickered over his eyes for a brief moment.

 

“All in due time,” he reminded her. “Even the most indifferent assassin knows there is a right time to strike. Anything precipitated would be disastrous.”

 

“I am not indifferent…I want to strike at him. I want him dead now. I want it to end here!” she told him passionately. “I have nothing to hold me back from it.”

 

He stepped aside gallantly.

 

“Be my guest!” he ushered her towards the stairs. “Let’s all wander down to the Howe estate and pay him a friendly visit, yes?Let us help him complete his twisted plan. And rest assured he will save you for last because he will relish every second of suffering you betray. And he will have such interesting things to put down in the records about the Couslands!” he said impatiently. “Not that it’ll matter, since the Blight will make historical records superfluous,” he chided her.

 

It was something he’d said.

 

“He would, wouldn’t he?” Jayne whispered, sobered.

 

“Would what?” Zevran furrowed his brow.

 

“Save me for last.”

 

“He comes across as the type of man who would hardly deny himself gratification, unless it were a true delicacy, rare and scarce—then he would take his time to savor it.”

 

“If he held us all in captivity, he would make me watch as he tortured each one of you, wouldn’t he?”

 

“And in such a matter he would be untouchable—even the law states that he may dispose of invaders to his domain as he sees fit,” Zevran continued.

 

And there it was. As simple as day. Her something to hold her back.

 

“Perhaps I already knew that deep inside,” she told him. “I cannot take that risk. What happens to me…affects all of you.”

 

“Yes: affects us all,” he agreed. “Deeply,” he added, clasping her hand tightly. 

 

For a precious instant she caught an achingly vulnerable expression over his handsome features, so different from his overconfident swagger.

 

A loud crash further away alarmed them, shaking them back to their senses. They could hear a small commotion gravitating towards the hallway.

 

“ Are you unhurt, Messere?” someone called out.

 

“It’s all fine, it’s all right—“ they heard Alistair stammer. “I just thought I saw…behind the painting. It was nothing…” he paused. “Please tell me it can be easily repaired,” he groaned.

 

“Do not trouble yourself, Messere…”

 

Zevran peeked around the corner and returned to her chuckling.

 

“He was still going down the hallway…He nearly brought down the mural painting over his head.”

 

“Was Leliana really hiding in wait there?” she asked suspiciously.

 

“No!” he grinned. “But I thought I’d further our future king’s education. I’m sure it was a valuable exercise in observation.”

 

She snorted, chasing the murderous thoughts, desperately trying to clear her mind once more.

 

“I don’t know who was worse down there: Alistair …or that Ser Cauthrien. Perhaps we should trade? One Alistair for one Ser Cauthrien? A fool for a fool?” he jested, earning a light punch from her to the shoulder as they turned the corner together. “At least Alistair is entertaining, spontaneous. Did you see how quickly she listened when Loghain reprimanded her? It was practically perverse,” he smirked knowingly. “ I bet she likes him to yell at her like that when they’re knocking boots…”

 

Jayne shook her head. 

 

“I can’t even go there, Zevran. I fail to see any humor in this.”

 

“You might as well, amora,” he said somberly, an unsettling streak of darkness overcoming him. They wandered down the hallway, and he moved tensely, hyperaware of their surroundings. “As the saying goes, it is life, and from life no one comes out alive…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A longer chapter because I haven't updated this fic in a while and you people are awesome and deserve only good things...and because a lot of the dialogue is from the game.
> 
> The first encounter between the Warden and Howe always felt anticlimactic to me. To me that fairly dispassionate exchange only made sense if it is treated like strategic jockeying for an advantage. By the way: an "Indirect Attack" is an actual military strategy. And Ser Cauthrien...Will she ever live down that "Churl!"? (Hint: No.) Tensions are rising, things are starting to fray under pressure...
> 
> A foray into Denerim is coming up soon!


	48. Chapter 48

"Eamon suggested we venture into Denerim and meet with different nobles to get an idea of where we stand in regards to support at the Landsmeet. He is convinced we have full support of the majority of the Banns, but he cannot vouch for other Arlings, especially since Loghain has shuffled power among various houses," Alistair explained to the group assembled in his room later on.

"He wants us simply to wander outside...and what? Conduct an inquiry?" Zevran shrugged, sprawling across the bed. "Did he already tire of our company that he wishes to see us imprisoned for going around asking publicly whether or not nobles will stick it to Loghain at the Landsmeet?"

"Can you get off my bed?" Alistair gestured with annoyance at Zevran's feet resting on the coverlet.

"Now that's something I haven't heard often!" Zevran smirked, swinging his legs over the edge.

"Antiva sounds like the land of desperate souls," Morrigan taunted, interrupting her perusal of the bookshelves.

"You have no idea, my dear," Zevran raised an eyebrow suggestively.

"Let's stay out of trouble. We should stay put," Oghren stated, crossing his arms.

"Does the Arl think we can just burst into any of Denerim's taverns unseen?" Leliana huffed.

"Taverns?" Oghren glanced up at her in wonder. "We'd be going to  _taverns_?"

"Well...Yes. Most of the nobles here for the Landsmeet are not from Denerim. They'll be lodging in the inns and lingering in their taverns," Leliana explained to the dwarf.

"Let's go meet all them fine nobles!" Oghren rubbed his hands excitedly.

"I, for one, would not object to a Denerim outing," Morrigan opined, pulling a thick leather-bound tome from the shelf. "There are places I very much need to visit."

"What places?" Alistair inquired suspiciously.

"Places of interest to me!" she declared firmly. "I need to procure...some items."

"Shopping?" Leliana asked, a glimmer in her eyes.

"Our little Morrigan is growing up! We'll take you to buy some properly sized clothes, as yours seem a bit...scant. Not that we mind," Zevran stated archly.

"Nope, not at all," Oghren agreed a bit too quickly.

"The only place I can imagine you visiting with interest is the gallows," Alistair grumbled.

"Well, then! I'll make sure to pick up a noose for you, but I suspect they do not make them large enough to slip over heads as big as yours," Morrigan snapped.

Alistairs hands shot up.

"Wait...wait...how come they get away with making rude comments, but I am the only one you get mad at?"

"Alistair, my friend," Zevran said patronizingly, "it is the difference between those who wield daggers and those who carry broadswords: I deliver my repartee with far more finesse, charm-"

"You are all idiots," Morrigan stated condescendingly, slamming the book shut and tossing it on a chair.

"You know, for all the reading you supposedly do, your vocabulary is surprisingly limited," Zevran chided her. "Here, let me elucidate matters: idiot." He pointed at a glaring Alistair.

"Or pike-twirler," Oghren offered.

"Brute," Zevran continued, undaunted, pointing at Oghren.

He was about to say something as he pointed at Sten, but meeting with a steely stare from the Qunari, decide to skip him and pointed back to himself, instead.

"Magnifi-"

He was interrupted by a volley of insults hurled at him from around the room. Everything from "bastard" to "loudmouth."

"I maintain you still are an idiot," Morrigan concluded.

"Venak hol!" Sten contributed belatedly.

Zevran pressed his lips together.

"I have no idea what that means, but I can tell you right now: that's the one that hurt the deepest..."

Wynne rolled her eyes and risked a glance at Jayne, who sat pensively by the fire, the heavy iron poker in her hand as she raked the glowing coals beneath the burning pile of wood.

"You have been terribly silent, dear."

She stirred from her thoughts and faced her group, which had fallen quiet after the brief round of bickering.

"I think that if we hide here, we will give credence to rumors. I don't want to hide. I want to walk in this city freely. I want to be seen weaving through its markets, stepping into its inns and taverns, consorting openly with its citizens. If there is anything we can do, anything we can say to sway the nobles' opinion in our favor, then we must do it. And we will not inspire much trust in the righteousness of our cause if we are seen as cowed."

"You realize we will be followed?" Zevran cautioned.

Jayne nodded, staring into the flickering flames.

"And you realize there may be attempts on our lives?"

She nodded again.

"Then allow me to propose an idea," he offered, standing up and walking to the center of the room. He paused, clearing his throat before introducing his plan. "Disguises," he began, one hand sweeping across the air dramatically.

A collective groan echoed through the room.

"What? Can't you people consider something with greater tactical elegance than the standard Fereldan 'smash it' strategy?" Zevran cried out.

"I like it. I think we should all be disguised as tavern patrons," Oghren chuckled.

"It would have to be something unexpected. Something all the spies on our trail would never think of, never suspect..." he continued.

"Oh, then I have it!" Alistair said in a mocking tone, smacking his fist into the palm of his hand. "You can go as someone sensible and reasonable! How's that for a misdirect?"

"I like it, Alistair! I like it! And perhaps you can go as a real man!" he teased back, puckering his lips.

"Actually, disguises aren't such a bad idea," Leliana mused, looking around at them. "If we all dressed up as if we were in the Chantry...no one would raise an eyebrow at us."

"See? Thank you, Leliana, for talking some sense into these hardheaded Fereldans who lack our subtlety and sagacity-"

"I was raised in Orlais, but remember: I am Fereldan-born," Leliana warned him.

"Let's indulge this plan for a moment, shall we?" Alistair continued, moving towards Sten. "Explain how disguising Sten in Chantry robes would be a 'subtle' move? 'Oh,'" he began, "'that would be our dear Sister Stendette, she has a rather ravenous appetite!'"

"You would draw too much attention, I'm afraid," Wynne addressed Sten apologetically.

"I dunno. Could work. Sten in a dress? I've seen worse," Oghren mumbled.

"I'm not wearing a dress," Sten announced.

"And I believe that settles the matter," Morrigan grinned derisively.

"What do you think, Jayne?" Leliana asked, placing her hand over her friend's shoulder.

"I'm not wearing a dress either," Jayne stated, casting Sten a sympathetic look. "Let the spies trail us, let them report how we move about the city. I think that is something Loghain and Howe would feel very unsettled hearing. If we are careful and avoid the more isolated or rougher parts of town, we should be fine. "

"Come now, Sten! Your people must engage in covert operations once in a while, no?" Zevran complained.

Sten puzzled.

"Why pretend? When we wish to attack, we attack."

"Some of the Qunari even have horns," Leliana explained, drawing her fingers up over her head. "How could you ever disguise that?"

"I think we should continue to discuss our disguises...at the tavern," Oghren suggested.

"Perhaps we should all dress up as Qunari!" Alistair ribbed Zevran further. "I'm quite sure Eamon has some hunting trophies hanging on the walls here—no one would notice a few missing ram horns!"

"I am just wondering if there's anything for YOU to borrow, dear Alistair, given that I doubt asses are mounted on walls as trophies," Zevran countered.

"No, no, they aren't hunted!" Alistair's stance had become confrontational. "That would explain why you remain free!"

Zevran was about to speak when Jayne rose and made her way to the door.

"Jayne?" Wynne called out. "Leaving us already?"

"I'm going to bed," she announced. "I suggest you all do the same. Tomorrow we'll go into the city together and see what we can learn." She looked at Zevran. "No disguises."

He sighed.

"Very well. If our fearless Warden says 'no disguises,' then it is 'no disguises,' but I'd like to at least reiterate my disappointment. Fereldan battle stories would be far better if they couldn't all be summarized as, 'And then they hit everything in sight.'"

"Right now I wish I had a tankard in sight to hit," Oghren lamented. "Good night."

They began to disperse, a few barbs still being exchanged in the background as Jayne found her way out of the room. Halfway down the hall she was startled by an arm encircling her waist.

"I would never presume that you would wish for my company tonight," Zevran said gently, pulling closer as they continued walking, "But I am wondering if I could do anything for you," he said.

"I'm afraid I won't be good company tonight," she told him, halting before her bedroom door.

"I see," he said respectfully. "I understand completely," he nodded, raising her hand to his lips.

He kissed her knuckles and released her hand with a small squeeze.

"Surely, however, you will not object to my doing one last thing before you retire for the night, yes?"

She pushed the door open into the bedroom, the candles lit and her bed already turned down for the evening.

"And what would that be?" she asked warily.

"Ensuring your safety," he winked.

She watched as he cautiously slipped past her into the room, unsheathing both his daggers. He began to inspect the quarters, first in earnest, with feline grace, lithe and shadowy and he peered about. Once he appeared content there was nothing to be concerned with, she had expected him to leave, but he resumed his exploration in a more comical vein the second time around: he burst out of the alcove in a crouch, a small dagger ensconced between his teeth, his eyes shifting about, he leaped beneath her bed, rolling out the opposite side boisterously, and then concluded his act by proceeding to beat and flail wildly at the curtains.

She knew such buffoonery was for her benefit.

"So far nothing appears to be amiss. No hidden assassins," he reported.

"Perhaps they are in disguise?" she found herself arching an eyebrow.

She couldn't help herself.

He flashed her a pained expression.

"Even you mock me," he lamented. "Someday you will regret your words and marvel at my expertise in disguises," he admonished her, casually wandering up to her bed and lifting the covers. "Excuse me now, Warden. I am on duty and still need to check your bed," he said seriously.

She shook her head. She knew where he was going with that little ruse.

"Did you find anything?" she teased him as he pretended to be scrutinizing the end of the bed from the raised covers.

He shifted his amber eyes to her and dropped the coverlet. He held her gaze and approached her until they were facing each other. Without a further word, he rapidly reached forward and spun her around. Before she could comprehend what was happening, he had her pinned against the wall.

"I am afraid I need to inspect you, So-Called-Warden. For all I know, you might be in disguise...An impostor..." he whispered in her ear before his free hand trailed down to her waist, where he began to undo her belt.

She smirked.

"Maybe I'll have to inspect you first-" She attempted to turn around, but he did not allow it; he tightened his hold and pushed into her, interrupting any attempts to escape.

"Mm...I don't think so," he cautioned.

Her eyes widened as she felt his body—certain parts more than others— press up against her back.

"Well, there is no disguising what your intentions are!" she chastised him.

For a second he hesitated, and with a light chuckle, buried his face in the nape of her neck.

"Forgive me; like Sten, some things are too big to disguise," he teased.

She finally cracked a smile.

"Maferath's balls, Zevran! You are absolutely incorrigible! How you can you be entertaining such thoughts...with death breathing down our necks!"

"Has it ever been any other way? The chase begins the moment we are born, my dear. Besides, I find a soft breath on the neck most seductive, no?" he cooed provocatively, grazing her skin with his lips as he spoke, his own breath tantalizingly warm over her neck.

"Zevran," she chided him, struggling to conceal the effect such a small gesture had had on her. "You find  _everything_  seductive, provided your partner has a pulse and is breathing!"

"I am a simple man, with simple needs," he declared wistfully, one hand whipping her belt off as the other began to gather up her tunic. "But not just any partner will do, you know."

"Oh, no?" she asked.

"No. Only you, my dear Warden," he said with disarming sweetness.

"I bet you say that to all your Wardens," she said playfully, blushing.

When he did not reply, she turned her head to glance over her shoulder, intrigued. She caught a fleeting confusion over his features.

"Zevran?" she called out in the silent room.

"I—"

But he paused, unsure. He appeared at a loss for words, his expression strangely devoid of guile, as if surprised by a thought, some quiet realization he couldn't express. She was about to shake herself loose to face him in earnest and ask what was troubling him when he promptly recomposed himself. She felt his grip tighten once more and he pushed her up into the wall again, a bit more roughly this time.

"Well played," he rasped into her ear. "For trying to interfere with my duties, I regret to inform you that I will now have to give you a more thorough inspection," he continued with a sly grin.

She was about to protest, cast the roleplay aside, curious to chase whatever he had revealed for that fleeting moment. Her heart began to race wildly, but she found her determination slip away as she felt him began to undo the buttons of her trousers, heightening her anticipation, making it more pronounced; she cursed herself for letting him sense how successful his lusty ministrations were as she let out a small moan. She couldn't help grumbling as she heard him let out an infuriatingly triumphant chuckle. He turned her around at last, but still would not release her, maintaining her firmly placed between himself and the wall.

"I will leave nothing unturned," he threatened her, pulling off her tunic and unraveling her binding. She leaned her back against the cool stone. He leaned in closer and kissed her needily, hungrily.

"And what if you find me guilty?" she wondered dazedly, as he broke away to finish undressing her.

"Oh, you know I will," he replied, a glint in his eyes.

He sought her lips again and she raised her hand to his cheek, stroking it, tracing her fingers then her lips over his pointed ear, biting the lobe gently, sensing him tense from surprise and delight.

"If I am guilty as charged," she whispered coyly, "what have I to lose?"

He gripped her by the arms abruptly and steered her towards the edge of the bed, pushing her onto her back. He then swooped down to her feet, where he began to unfasten her boots.

"What will happen to me?" she played along, feigning distress.

Once he'd pulled off her boots, he contemplated her lying half naked over the covers with a wolfish expression on his face.

"Offenses of this caliber are dealt with severely, of course," he said with enough gravity to cause her breath to hitch.

Without further ado, he grabbed the bottom of her trousers and yanked them off, exposing her muscular legs, her fair skin prickling into tiny goosebumps from contact with the chilly air. She let out a small cry and began to edge away, further up the bed, completely enthralled by his predatory chase.

"But you needn't worry, my beautiful criminal," he informed her in a silken voice as he unfastened his own belt. "You are in the custody of an Antivan, and Antivans are known for their gallant ways," he explained, unceremoniously slipping off her small clothes and tossing them over his shoulder. It was terribly exhilarating, she thought, even as she blushed at his appraising, lustful gaze over her exposed body. He crawled over her, straddling her and stilling her from escaping him further.

"This is hardly gallant!" she stammered, failing miserably at conveying a modest indignation.

He shooed her folded arms away from her chest and placed a kiss between her breasts.

"I will have you know: Antivans are chivalrous," he stated, enjoying her squirming as he began to move downwards over her body.

"How is this chivalrous ?" she complained.

"Very. For one: ladies first, my dear Warden..."

He kissed her navel before moving further down.

All thoughts, all resistance faded as she was overcome with intense pleasure.

* * *

They lay beside each other, spent, her hand firmly in his. She didn't need to turn her head to the side to know she would meet those intense, scrutinizing golden eyes.

"How was that?" he asked in a half-whisper.

She looked at him, admiring his handsome features.

"I presume you are most pleased with yourself," she told him.

"I presume you are most pleased with myself, too, from what I could tell," he concluded saucily.

She sat up in the bed, leaning forwards into a stretch. She felt his fingertips begin to stroke her back in a soothing rhythm.

 _Everything he does feels good_ , she thought sheepishly.

"You are impossible. You think you can solve everything with a good romp."

He laughed at her accusation.

"Am I wrong?"

He stopped stroking her back and began to run his fingers slowly through her long hair.

"Tell me you aren't feeling more..relaxed."

She turned her face away, concealing a smile in her shoulder.

"So that whole act was in the name of my beneficence?" she prodded him.

"Always," he stated languidly, twirling one of her locks around a finger.

"You couldn't bear to imagine me sleeping all alone?"

"Is there a greater wrong to right in the world? Far be it from me to allow such injustice!" he declared, indignantly.

"Very clever..very crafty, how you maneuvered into my bed tonight," she informed him, sinking back into his arms.

"I actually had other plans for you," he said rakishly, glancing back at the wall, "but then you had to go and touch my ear..." he sighed.

She drew close, nuzzling his cheek, sprinkling little kisses over his lips, nose, eyelashes.

"I'm glad you stayed," she admitted. "It was best for me not to be alone tonight, after all."

"Did it ever occur to you, amora, that perhaps I was the one who did not want to be alone tonight?" he said quietly.

She stilled at his revelation. It was surprising and disconcerting.

"Zevran," she started, cautiously, hopeful, "you don't need to ask for permission to spend the night. Can we just agree to be together every night, without all this... formality between us?"

 _Aren't we lovers?_ she wanted to ask.

He said nothing, averting his gaze from hers, his expression suddenly clouding.

"Do you agree?" she insisted, her toes brushing over his beneath the covers.

He did not reply. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, leaning out, as if weighing his words carefully.

"Are you thirsty?" he asked, clumsily evading further conversation on the topic. "I need a cup of water."

He rose heavily, making his way to the crystal carafe on a dresser across the room.

She watched him pour water into the cup with a fussy and deliberate slowness before drinking thirstily.

 _I frightened him_ , she thought sadly.  _Don't disrupt the illusion_.

 _And yet, how could nothing have shifted, changed between us?_  she thought defiantly. _I love him, and I doubt he isn't aware of it by now._

She couldn't imagine he still saw their rapport as a purely casual diversion, a convenient arrangement.

 _Perhaps_ , she wondered,  _somehow, along the way... Could the illusion ever become real_?

As he slipped back into the bed, he held his arm out for her to curl back into his chest. She didn't bring up the matter again, wary of unsettling him further. Even as he remained silent, his eyes staring off into the distance, contemplating veiled thoughts, he held her to him, and at one point, as they gradually drifted to sleep, gathered her closer, embracing her tightly.

She felt, for the first time, that perhaps she wasn't being entirely foolish when she found herself hoping against hope.

* * *

Jayne awoke to the light-flooded room, the curtains tied back, blinking sleepily at the silvery ash dusting the hearth. Zevran sat with his back to her, in front of the windowed door that led to a small balcony overhanging the courtyard. He glanced back at her as soon as he heard her stir.

She had expected the usual: one of his impish grins, some exasperatingly immodest comment about their torrid evening— not the expression of concern that she received.

She sat up immediately, alarmed.

"What is wrong?" she asked nervously.

He returned his gaze to the scene beyond the window, staring for a few more moments.

"Probably nothing," he finally conceded.

She rose from the bed, draping a blanket over her shoulders and settled beside him. She followed the general direction of his gaze. Beyond the window, over the courtyard, on the rooftop across from them, two large black crows perched, their feathers ruffling in the morning breeze. Her eyes widened and she turned to him immediately.

"Zevran...Do you think—"

"It's nothing," he interrupted, his tone decisive and discouraging of further inquiry. "We are all on edge. Look." He pointed again. "For all we know, it could be Morrigan with a paramour." He attempted to make light of it.

Jayne watched the large ominous birds, one of them busily raking its beak through sable plumage while the other creature's sharp caws pierced the morning's quietude.

The memory came to her unbidden, unwelcome: a pinch-nosed tutor rattling off a lesson for her and Fergus to memorize, their quills darting over parchment to keep up with the interminable, useless lists.

 _A charm of goldfinches, an ascension of larks, a nest of pheasants..._  he had droned on that interminably dull morning so long ago. One particular construction bothered her now:

 _A murder of crows,_  she remembered uneasily.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- It gets worse before it gets better...Hang in there with me...You good people know what's coming up soon. I always though that it would make more sense if Zevran began to pull away at the thought of possibly putting his Warden in peril. I like that idea that his response to considering her mortality and experiencing the depths of his feelings is to withdraw, protect himself. It's so very real and I like this chink in his armor, this vulnerability in an otherwise experienced, world-weary person. Love—the real deal—should also be something scary as heck because it forces us to come to grips with our own needs, wants, desires...and fears. And how we face those truths—in ourselves and in each other—determines how our relationships grow...or don't. And I sincerely hope you enjoyed my Three Shades of Grey: smuttiness, or even a dash of it, is not easy for this Chantry-raised girl, but that intimate perspective needs to be examined, nevertheless, since I don't think I can write Zevran and not explore his intense physicality and how it affects him and the Warden.
> 
> And damn: I am blushing.


	49. Chapter 49

**49.**

By the time they had met with the others and finished breakfast, ten to eleven crows were perched over the roof, cawing, wings flapping agitatedly as they hopped to and fro, their heads bobbing and tilting in an unsettling manner.

Zevran was livid.

"Brasca!" he roared, among other curses, storming away from the window, his brows furrowed.

Jayne and Leliana remained stationed by the heavy stone parapet, peering inquisitively at the eerie spectacle.

"What is the matter?" Wynne wondered, trying to discern what was warranting such an emotional display.

"Zevran's been marked," Leliana muttered, her clear blue eyes trained on the birds.

"And they try to pull this on me! ME! Of all people!" he raged, rushing back towards the open window. "What do they think? That I am going to be surprised? Fearful?"

"I believe it is supposed to unnerve you." Morrigan grimaced at his outburst.

"This is infuriating, that's what it is!" He brashly stuck his head out the window. "Amateurs!" he shouted into the courtyard.

"I'm so very glad it didn't work," Morrigan feigned relief as she slinked back to her seat.

"Calm yourself, Zevran," Leliana stated shrewdly. "Look—it's a large number of birds. Someone went to great pains to make sure you knew you were being targeted."

"I know that!" he turned to her with exasperation. "I know exactly what they're up to! I was often at the other end of these ploys!"

He leaned sullenly against the wall.

"What do you make of this?" Leliana asked him as she coolly surveyed the spectacle.

"They are being very brazen. A lone assassin on a mission would never broadcast a mark like this so publicly. She or he would count on the cover of anonymity and opportunity," he concluded.

"My thoughts precisely. Two things may be at work here," she stated. "The first scenario: the Crows are willing to wait and see... the outcome of the Blight here, but want you to know they haven't lost sight of you."

They all fell silent.

"What do you mean 'the outcome of the Blight here'?" Alistair narrowed his eyes as he remained seated before an empty plate, cake crumbs littering the surface of the fine porcelain.

"The second," Leliana continued, ignoring him, "is that there is a cell preparing to confront you."

"You know it's the second," Zevran grumbled. "The Crows are hardly famous for their restraint and patience."

"So I've heard," Leliana said quietly.

"How do we proceed?" Jayne asked, looking between her two assassins, seeking counsel on how to navigate that world where contracts on human lives exchanged hands with the same ease and fluidity as coin.

"This is painful to watch," he gestured towards the birds. "It's the classic  _modus_   _operandi_  of House Arainai," he continued. "If you discompose your target beforehand, he or she is more likely to despair, commit careless mistakes...walk right into your blade. I wonder who dreamed up this uninspired scheme," he wondered in slight disbelief. "Seems like they've lost some of their... flair, since I've left."

"Hmm. Yes. I can see it now: Zevran, Master of Ceremonies, available to plan your christenings, birthday celebrations, and assassinations," Alistair teased.

"You jest, but the occasions are not mutually exclusive," he quipped, shooting Alistair a sideways glance.

"But what do we do now? How do we make it stop?" Jayne asked, betraying more anxiety than she had wished to reveal.

He inhaled deeply and pushed away from the wall he had been leaning against, staring at the birds pensively.

"It is actually very simple: I kill them," he stated. All heads turned to look at him. "Or they kill me."

Jayne's brow furrowed.

" _We_  kill them," she corrected him.

A slight commotion manifested itself in his eyes. Her words had the effect of breaking the hard, determined stare he had worn since becoming aware of the birds.

"No, Warden. This is not your fight," he declared.

"But it is! Haven't you risked your neck for me?... For us?" She shot a pleading glance at Alistair, seeking confirmation.

"I will not put you at risk. End of story," he said plainly. At the incredulous look on her face he continued. "You and the Last-Minute Prince here are the only hope we have of stopping the Blight," he stated with determination. "You focus on that... and I will handle my own affairs."

"You cannot go at it alone!" Jayne insisted, almost imploringly.

"Oh, but I have been going at it alone...all my life," he said sharply. "Or had been... Until you came along," he amended, in a gentler tone, noticing her distressed demeanor.

"Let us help you," she begged. "We will stand with you—you shouldn't face your foes alone. Morrigan: Zevran helped you fight Flemeth," she addressed the sorceress. "Surely—"

"I will help if needed, obviously," Morrigan said with resignation.

"Yes, any opportunity to unleash mayhem," Alistair muttered, wiggling his fingers before him.

"And Alistair: he's saved your life on more than one occasion," Jayne told him.

"Yes, yes, no need to remind me," Alistair said begrudgingly.

"Sten, we recovered your sword with help—"

"My sword is at his service," Sten stated solemnly.

Zevran walked up to the Qunari, a stunned look on his face.

"Now, I admit that surprises me, Sten. That's quite a noble thing to do, and while I do appreciate—"

"Because then my debt to him will be paid," Sten concluded, nodding.

Zevran tossed his hands up in the air.

"If it comes down to battle with the Crows, you will not be caught defenseless," Leliana confirmed.

Her statement was seconded by Oghren, who slapped the table determinedly.

"We've got your back, elf!"

"You? More like my rear, you crazed dwarf," he scoffed.

He crossed his arms and surveyed the room as everyone stared back at him expectantly.

"I do not like it," he confessed. "And I am not accustomed to...this," he said, waving his hand at them.

"What? Trust?" Wynne wondered.

"All of the eulogies I've ever heard have one thing in common: the fact that the departed were trusting souls."

"I don't mean to interrupt, but are we going into the city today?" Alistair wondered.

"Yes," Jayne decided. "We will venture out into Denerim. Eamon suggested we go to The Gnawed Noble."

"Then what are we waiting for!" Oghren cheered, pulling away from the table. "Let's get a move on!"

She watched as the others took their leave in a flurry of movement, purporting to prepare for their outing. As the others left, she approached Zevran, who was still enthralled by the ominous birds.

"House Arainai?" Jayne uttered to him in astonishment. "But that's your last name! Do you mean to say you are the Master of one of the fabled Crow Houses?"

At her tone of stupefaction, he raised a bemused eyebrow at her.

"Oh, Warden," he began, in a warmer tone, "You really must stop doing that."

"Doing what?" she asked in confusion.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer.

"Thinking I am more than I really am," he said wistfully.

He gazed at her affectionately before glancing away and letting out a small laugh.

"What's so humorous?" Jayne asked, seeking out his eyes.

"Did you know that is something I find irresistible about you: you have a certain naivete that has more to do with your kind and generous nature than with any lack of worldliness," he told her sincerely. "That you would believe that I..." he paused, smiling. "Grandmaster...with a House named after himself..."

"Well, forgive me!" she stated peevishly. "The coincidence is glaring."

"Arainai is my last name," he revealed, "...and that of many other assassins, purchased and delivered to the Crows for training. You see, trainees and recruits take on their House's name."

"Maker!" she whispered. "I thought...I thought maybe that your name..."

"What is it?" he wondered, tilting his head.

"It's just..." she shook her head, contemplating him with saddened eyes. "I thought...hoped...At least your name! Something from your mother, your family," she stated finally.

He raised both eyebrows in mild surprise.

"Did they not let you keep anything?" she said angrily. "Can't you claim anything for yourself, for your own?"

He peered down, pensive.

"We assassins, of any rank, if I am to be honest, are meant to be expendable, interchangeable...Pawns, really. Faceless messengers of powerful wills. That is all we are: the conduit of desires that shape the political and financial landscape of Thedas. Our survival, mission after mission is profitable, although least of all to ourselves, while our deaths are mere inconveniences and temporary setbacks in the grand scheme of things. Our skills are honed, our instincts to perform our tasks nurtured. We are used as mere instruments. What makes us human is only a weakness to be exploited," he explained. "Which is why, my dear Warden, I beg you to let me solve this vexing matter on my own."

"What do you mean 'let you solve this matter' on your own?" she inquired suspiciously.

He slackened his hold of her.

"Perhaps I should remove myself from here," he considered, his voice resonating in the large, vaulted room.

"Remove yourself?" she uttered. "No." She shook her head. "You can't. You'll be more vulnerable. You are safer here, among us. Let us protect you this time, Zevran!"

He produced a mirthless grin.

"I am anything but safer here. They," he tilted his head towards the window, "know I failed in my mission and that I am traveling in your company now. The contract on your and Alistair's lives is as valid as ever, my dear. If I leave, you'll be much safer. You and he have proven to be challenging, elusive targets—they may not want to bother with you, if at all, until Ferelden's political fate is clearer...If I leave, I will be a perfect lure leading away from you. I...Ah..." he sighed at a sudden realization. "I can only imagine the horde of assassins trying to outbid each other for the contract on my head. It's all some have been waiting to see finally happen," he mused.

"No," she gripped both his arms. "Stop saying that! How could you think you'll be more vulnerable if you remain?" she puzzled, growing upset at the thought of his leaving.

"It's rather simple, amora: if they ever get to you... they get to me," he whispered tenderly, stroking his thumb over her cheek.

She was about to speak, tell him she would like to see them try to get her, fight through all of them, when they heard a creak at the room's entrance. As both their heads turned to seek out the source of the noise, they glimpsed Wynne, standing hesitantly at the door.

"Excuse me," she apologized politely. "I believe I left my shawl behind."

Jayne stepped back as Zevran released her waist slowly.

She deftly wiped the back of her hand over her eyes, struggling to regain her composure.

"Will you be ready to depart soon?" Wynne asked tentatively.

Jayne nodded, offering her a tight lipped grin. He remained absorbed in his thoughts as he peered out of the window, a melancholy expression over his features. Wynne approached them, joining them in the ominous vigil.

"It is a rather feeble attempt at theatrics," Wynne agreed, addressing him directly, Jayne realized, for the first time in a long while.

She waved her hand a couple times while whispering unintelligibly before casting a blazing blast of light towards the roof, startling the birds and causing them to scatter, their large black wings beating in alarm against the turgid sky.

Jayne and Zevran glanced in surprise at the older mage, whose glare did not relent until the last bird had flown off.

"What?" She took in their stares. "I am not fond of crows. Perhaps it is superstitious of me, but I was taught they are all harbingers of ill portents."

He remained silent.

"Well,  _all_  may be too broad a statement," Wynne admitted. "I know of at least one crow who is not all that bad," she smiled, patting his arm.

He snorted lightly before taking Wynne's hand and gallantly planting a small kiss on it.

"I bid your leave," he announced with a comical courtly bow before heading towards the doorway.

"Where are you going?" Jayne asked cautiously. "You are coming with us, aren't you?"

They seemed to have reached a small impasse as they stared at each other from across the room.

"Yes," he finally relented. "I will go with you. I just need to go back to my quarters to fetch a few things before we depart," he said, before disappearing into the hallway.

Jayne stared at the spot he had been standing in just moments before. She couldn't express what upset her more: the thought he was a marked man or the possibility he would leave her side because of it.

"Are you all right?" Wynne asked with kind concern.

"Yes," Jayne answered quickly, not wanting to give the woman an opportunity to launch into another lecture on performing her duty to Ferelden. "We will leave shortly."

Wynne cast her a dubious glance.

"You seem quite upset. Would you like to talk?"

Jayne caught her reflection off an oval mirror beside the mantlepiece and balked. Her face appeared tired and ashen.

"About what? I know your thoughts on my and Zevran's relationship," Jayne stated, eager to depart the room and avoid further judgment.

Wynne unexpectedly took her hand between hers and as Jayne glanced down, staring at the soft and pale hands, raddled with age, a heavy teardrop rolled down her nose.

"I have watched you for a time and...perhaps I was wrong," she admitted. "There seems to be something special between the two of you."

Jayne startled.

"His demeanor changes when he's with you. There is a tenderness to his gaze I'd never seen till now," she remarked.

"But I've seen it from the start," Jayne replied.

Wynne grinned knowingly.

"Perhaps he just allowed you to see it."

She clasped Jayne's hand tighter.

"I think I was too harsh in my judgment before...and I am sorry," she offered warmly.

Jayne returned the smile.

"Apology accepted."

Wynne sighed deeply.

"What you have may not last forever," she began. "Death and duty may part you, but love's worthiness is not diminished because of that," she acknowledged. "I should have seen this before." She turned her light gray eyes to Jayne, addressing her firmly. "Instead, you learn to cherish every precious moment that you spend together, knowing that it may be the last."

Jayne remained in silence, the weight of Wynne's words bearing down on her thoughts. The woman chuckled.

"And for those of us watching...Well, it brings warmth to these old bones to know that something so beautiful can be found in the midst of chaos and strife."

Jayne was touched and sought something to say to match Wynne's sentiments. Instead, she found herself hemming and hawing ungraciously. The two shared an amused laugh.

"Ah, to be at the receiving end of such a passionate gaze," Wynne said, placing her hand over her chest. "As it is often said, 'Youth is wasted on the young...'"

"Wynne!" she censured the woman playfully.

"I remember being in love long ago," she confided, leaning closer. "I never expected such a thing to happen to me...Circle mages aren't encouraged or even allowed to...Well..." her voice trailed off. "But the heart is resourceful. The affair itself was fleeting... short lived. A matter of a few months only."

Jayne nodded sympathetically.

"And yet...Despite that, I can't help but marvel at how it looms eternal in my soul," she revealed, reverence in her voice.

Somehow, she felt she understood perfectly what Wynne meant.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I find Wynne a character folks tend to overlook in Dragon Age. Perhaps she is a victim of ageism? She always strove to be an exemplary Circle mage...and yet, she was all too human. Despite her dedication to the Circle and the Chantry, Wynne was not robotic in her compliance. Her affair resulted in the birth of a son. He was taken away from her as an infant by the Chantry. She made questionable choices throughout her life, acted reprehensibly in the past (the guilt she carries over her runaway apprentice after so many years is so sad) but she also emerges as having depth and complexity. She is rich in that she has evolved into someone who is kind, loving, and generous. I'm a big Wynne fan. Plus, she always saved my Warden in battles with fabulous healing spells in the nick of time... ;-)
> 
> Credits where credits are due:
> 
> "Youth is wasted on the young." -Oscar Wilde (not yours truly.)
> 
> Wynne's dialogue/apology is straight from the game.
> 
> House Arainai lore: World of Thedas, Volume Two.


	50. Chapter 50

Jayne surveyed the dim tavern room.

Around her laughter erupted raucously and heads leaned in close to partake in private conversations.

"Here, more than in the halls of the palace, are the future plans and plots that shape the kingdom laid out," Leliana whispered in awe to them.

"Ooo! Can we get some crunchy crab bites?" Oghren wondered delightedly, watching trays spin out of the kitchen over the raised arms of the tavern maids.

"…As well as some of the kingdom's future indigestions," Alistair noted.

"I would have thought for sure you already had crabs, dwarf," Zevran muttered, taking in the tavern's clientele with a cautious eye.

"He's insulting you, you know." Alistair tapped Oghren's shoulder.

"How? You catch crabs while gettin' lucky! What do you know about that, pike twirler!" Oghren chuckled.

"Now I believe the dwarf is insulting _you_ ," Morrigan stated to Alistair.

The walk to the tavern had been a short one, merely crossing the market square and turning into an alley. They had all been on edge, but the crowd offered them some cover and protection. Still, as they wandered past busy stalls, she noticed both Zevran and Leliana's eyes scouring the crowd for any suspicious movements: perhaps a hand reaching beneath a cloak, or an unusual dispersion of people. Zevran's eyes would often glance up, towards the rooftops and she noticed Leliana carried her crossbow in her hand, rather than over her shoulder.

She was enormously relieved when they reached the tavern. Once inside, it took a moment for her eyes to adapt to the relative gloom. Despite the early hour, the cavernous rooms were lit with candles and smoke lingered in the air along with an acrid odor of burnt wax filling her nostrils as she approached a more secluded corner of the main room.

"Alistair, come with me," she beckoned towards a doorway leading to another room. "I see a few faces I recognize," she said ponderingly. How strange that the last times she had met the Banns had been at festive occasions—Oren's Chantry Blessing, she remembered sadly, suppressing the memory of a mild spring day, scattered blossom petals from the blooming orchard trees floating in the breeze, the banners of Highever proudly billowing above the towers of her home. How different would she appear to them now? "While he and I meet with different nobles, I suggest you all keep your eyes and ears open for any news or information of interest," she said.

* * *

By the time she and Alistair had finished, it was close to noon.

"How are we faring?" Leliana wondered as they made their way to the table. "Does it look like the Arl has garnered enough support?"

Jayne exchanged looks with Alistair.

"Let's see, now: there is good news and bad news," Alistair began, slipping onto the bench next to Morrigan.

"Start with the bad news," Wynne requested. "Perhaps there will be consolation in the good news."

"So the bad news is: no one has openly pledged support to Eamon," Alistair explained.

"If you say the good news is that desserts are being offered at half price, I might have to drag you outside," Zevran warned.

Jayne rubbed her face tiredly, resting her elbows on the table.

"The good news is no one said they wouldn't support our challenge to Loghain at the Landsmeet, either, though," she sighed. "People are hesitant to talk. Nervous—didn't you get that impression, Alistair?"

"It's more than that—people are afraid," he concluded. "All the disappearances are unnerving them."

"Yes," Jayne agreed. "It seems that those who openly disagree with Loghain or Howe just…vanish. Bann Sighard's son has disappeared. He is distraught over all the hedging on Loghain's end. Claims no one appears interested in pursuing the matter beyond officially stating he must have left Ferelden in fear of the Blight."

"What I want to know is what crawled up that Arl Wulff's rear for him to be such an ogre," Alistair's huffed. "Arl Woof," he grumbled.

"They were all uncomfortable speaking to us," she stated. "And I have known Bann Alfstanna and Arl Bryland for years," she pointed out. "Even they had trouble looking me in the eye. Other than offering their condolences, they commented very little on everything I revealed to them," she sighed. She looked at Leliana. "Arl Byrland informed us that the entire South Reach has been overrun by Darkspawn."

"Ah," Leliana's face revealed a pained expression. "Lothering is lost, then. All those people seeking refuge at the Chantry..." She closed her eyes for a moment, visibly shaken. "Draw your last breath, my friends, cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's right hand, and be Forgiven," she prayed softly.

A melancholy stillness shrouded them for a moment in the gloomy tavern.

"The end of days," Wynne finally said with a heavy sigh.

"Well: you Fereldans certainly know how to have a good time," Zevran smirked.

"Someone has been watching us," Sten revealed, his eyes following movement up ahead.

All their heads either looked up or whipped around nervously.

"That would be the barmaid, dear," Wynne announced patiently. "We have been sitting here for a very long time—we really should place an order."

Wynne gestured encouragingly to the young woman who approached them, a tray clutched over her chest.

"Ale?" Wynne asked, glancing around the table for approval. "And a glass of the house wine for me, please," she instructed.

"Make it a bottle," Oghren nodded. "Don't worry Wynne, I've got you," he winked. "And can we open a tab in Arl Guerrin's name?" he asked innocently.

"Of course, Ser," the woman stated.

Oghren pursed his lips and gave them a mischievous grin. "We've hit the mother lode."

"Nothing for me," Zevran added. "But I will be accompanying you to wherever it is you pour your ale from."

"The barrels are in the back room," the woman stated, concerned for a moment. "I don't think anyone is allowed—"

Zevran tilted his head charmingly, peering at her seductively as he flashed his most winsome grin.

"Won't you let me help you with your heavy tray?" he stated suggestively. "Such a burden for those delicate hands."

The woman blushed deeply before nodding, stammering something incoherent, and almost turning into a wall on her way back to the bar.

"Did you just flirt with the barmaid in front of Jayne?" Alistair wondered incredulously.

"This I do for your benefit," Zevran defended himself, shrugging. "I trust no one to bring me food and drink when I've been marked. And neither should you."

"You think the Crows would resort to poisoning?" Leliana doubted.

"The Crows not so much. If they came all the way from Antiva for this, they'll want to put on a little spectacle, although the prospect of an incoming Blight might make them consider more expedient methods. But don't forget: Loghain and Howe's agents are everywhere, waiting for an opportunity to strike, away from the public's eyes."

Alistair shuddered.

"I think I've just lost my appetite."

"Hurrah for small mercies," Morrigan added wryly. "The tartlets shall live to see another day."

Jayne looked down at the table uncomfortably.

"Thinking about these possible scenarios is exhausting; it almost makes me wish we were still in the wild."

Zevran rose and beckoned to Sten.

"Come, big man: follow me, just in case."

Sten rose and followed him past the bar. At the sight of the towering Qunari, the tavern keeper did not dare to question them and allowed them to pass through unhindered.

"What now? What do we do next?" Wynne asked.

"I say we stay put right here," Oghren suggested.

"We should head back to the Guerrin estate. Eamon must have his own people gathering intelligence," Jayne concluded.

Morrigan shifted on her bench.

"There is a place in the city I need to visit. I believe it is close by," she said.

A small commotion began to unfold at the bar. Jayne noticed the tavern keeper was berating their barmaid.

"But they insisted!" she kept repeating loudly at his flustered gesturing.

They fell silent once Zevran and Sten stepped back into the room, the elf carrying a bottle of wine and the Qunari holding a large tray filled with tankards.

"Poured them myself," the elf announced to their company, handing out the drinks among them.

"You could be well suited for this, now that your profitable career in assassination is compromised." Alistair took a tankard.

"I helped tend the bar at a whorehouse when I was younger, you know. You could even say that one career naturally led to the other."

"Remind me to tip you well," Oghren muttered, raising his eyebrows.

Zevran grinned tartly at him before setting a tankard in front of Jayne.

"You, Warden, can tip me later…" he winked.

"You mean it's not on the house?" Oghren ribbed him, as he sat down beside her again.

"For her?" he grinned slyly. "It could most certainly be on me… or under me, or anyway else she wants to do—"

Jayne turned crimson.

"To the Arl!" Alistair raised his tankard, interrupting.

"Hear, hear!" the others quickly added, effectively drowning out Zevran's lewd comment.

"Where do you want to go, Morrigan?" Wynne asked, sitting back and savoring her glass of wine.

"Oh! Me! Me! I know where I'd like Morrigan to go!" Alistair raised his hand feigning excitement.

"I am looking for a place called 'The Wonders of Thedas,'" she explained, attempting to ignore him.

Zevran arched an eyebrow.

"Now that sounds promising."

"I think I've heard of it! Isn't it run by the Circle of Magi?" Alistair asked.

"Yes, it is," Wynne confirmed. "And it is quite legendary."

"I am not sure I am following this. We are speaking about a whorehouse, correct?" Zevran asked.

"Hardly—it sells charms, reagents, potions, and other enchanted items. They are also famous for their books on the histories of various magical traditions and branches," Wynne clarified.

"A magical whorehouse?" Zevran insisted.

"No!" Morrigan objected.

"I'm confused."

"Naturally," she frowned.

"What are you looking for?" Alistair asked suspiciously.

"What else could a place called 'The Wonders of Thedas' be?" Zevran puzzled. "It can't be about Fereldan food…Or clothes…I think that's fairly obvious."

"None of your business," Morrigan quipped to Alistair.

"Do you know where it is located?" Jayne wondered.

Morrigan shrugged.

"I haven't the faintest idea," she admitted. "I know it is supposed to be in Denerim."

"Well, that's helpful!" Alistair complained. "Do you know where Ferelden is? No, but I know it is supposed to be in Thedas!" he mimicked her.

Their barmaid, hovering nearby in futile attempts to reclaim her tray, overheard them.

"Are you looking for The Wonders of Thedas? I can give you directions if you'll just give me a moment!"

"Is it far from here?" Jayne wondered.

The woman shook her head vigorously.

"Just a quick jaunt a few blocks from here. I'll draw you a map. I'll be right back!" she chirped cheerfully, before disappearing through the door leading into the kitchen.

They all sat wordlessly. The prospect of venturing out again somewhere unknown made Jayne's chest tighten. By then, anyone interested in their party would have heard that they were holed up at The Gnawed Noble.

"Morrigan," Jayne turned to face the mage, "is it urgent that we go?"

Morrigan's catlike eyes shifted to her.

"Yes," she replied simply.

"Can't it wait? We aren't exactly on a holiday, you know," Alistair stated patronizingly.

"Truer words were never spoken; it could never be a holiday with you around," she finally snapped. She redirected her attention to Jayne. "Suit yourselves. I was seeking to go there more for your sakes than mine," she announced, offended.

Before Jayne could respond, the barmaid returned hurriedly—a fragment of parchment in her hand.

"I drew you a map so you can find the shop," she said affably. "Will you be leaving shortly?"

Leliana's eyes shot to Zevran. He leaned towards her, astutely.

"Why do you wish to know?" he wondered.

She smiled awkwardly and pointed at her tray.

"I need that back."

Alistair dragged the map over to him end of the table.

"Hmm…Doesn't look that far." He passed it to Jayne. "Do you think there's any risk if we go?"

She contemplated the hastily drawn map and the scrawled handwriting.

"It really isn't that far…and if we stay close to the main streets, I doubt we will run into any trouble," she concluded.

Morrigan appeared to cheer up at the news.

"Let us go, then," she stated.

* * *

They followed the map down one of the main streets along the Drakon River, crossing one of the bridges to the opposite bank. They fell into step behind a flurry of activity—merchants' horse-drawn carts, pilgrims, and an unwieldy amount of refugees carrying varying amounts of belongings towards the city's main port. It was disconcerting for Jayne to see the city struggle to maintain its mundane pace, its day-to-day activities, while people attempted to barter their valuables in exchange for an escape on a ship across the Waking Sea to the Marches. Among the dirt-smeared faces in the crowd she noticed ragged women clasping the hands of perplexed young children, their expressions pleading as they thrust small pouches of gold, modest boxes of jewelry, and even, she saw once, a small gilded statue of Andraste towards curt and impatient crew trying to go about their business at the port.

 _The façade of normalcy is wearing thin_ , she thought, alarmed. _These people are desperate. They are bartering for their lives_.

She began to feel ill at ease.

_What are we doing, calling this Landsmeet? How can we be dabbling in politics when everything we are fighting over is about to be shattered? This is folly!_

Flashes of Ostagar returned to her memory: the air laden with smoke and ash, the hideous Darkspawn creatures wavering before the undulating heat of the torches they carried—hundreds, thousands of torches, pinpointing the fields with ominous light, swarming menacingly towards the outnumbered army.

"—because you are an idiot, that is why," Morrigan's smooth voice jolted her from her thoughts.

"I am not an idiot and the map isn't upside down," Alistair said defensively. "It is you who are looking out in the wrong direction," he complained.

"The only way is this one," Oghren pointed at a side street coursing up a gentle slope.

"Are you sure?" Alistair seemed unconvinced as he squinted at the map.

"The only other option is to jump into the river. I doubt it is underwater…although then it would merit its name!'" Zevran added unhelpfully.

Jayne sidled up to Alistair and peered at the map.

"Oghren is right," she muttered. She glanced at the cobblestoned side street. It was quieter, off the main road, but not as run down as some other areas they had passed as they walked along the river. According to the small map, the shop was at the end of the street.

They began to climb up the road and following it up the hill, but Jayne noticed it did not end at the top, as described in the map. The street had become quieter, more deserted. Further ahead, the road narrowed, leading towards a courtyard she could glimpse from where they stood.

"Must be down that way," Oghren pointed.

"It is not on the map," Sten concluded. "It must not he here."

"You aren't on the map either, and yet, here we are," Oghren sulked.

"We must be close, though," Wynne glanced around perplexedly.

"Leliana," Zevran called out warningly. She deftly armed her crossbow.

"I know," she replied in a low voice.

"What are you doing?" Alistair asked them.

Zevran's eyes surveyed the eerily lifeless square.

"I don't like this. We should leave," he said pointedly.

Leliana raised her crossbow as she moved towards the narrow alleyway.

"I can't see much from here. Looks like another courtyard."

"Perhaps it is in there? I could go check with someone else and report back," Morrigan offered, placing her staff before her.

"We do not separate," Zevran warned. "We split up, we're easier to pick off."

They began to wander down the small, dingy alley towards the deserted courtyard.

For a nerve-wracking moment, they all ambled in single file towards the open space, half expecting a horde of assassins to rush upon them suddenly.

The courtyard, however, remained hushed and undisturbed. In the near distance, Jayne heard reassuring sounds of everyday life: a Mabari barking, a child's wail, a door slamming followed by voices in conversation.

"This seems to be a service area, where several back entryways meet," Wynne noted, glancing around. Further ahead, a wide staircase led to a doorway—a lone torch burning beside it.

"Is it there, maybe?" Oghren pointed.

"If it isn't, we'll just agree we were given bad directions and go—" Alistair began.

"Or a bad map reader," Morrigan interrupted.

"Bad directions!" Alistair insisted emphatically, crumpling the parchment.

Jayne headed towards the stairwell, preparing to bound up and rap on the inconspicuous door at the side of a massive, towering stone building. Just as her foot struck the first step, a long shadow spilled over the top of the stairs.

"And so here is the mighty Grey Warden at long last!"

Jayne startled and her alarmed gaze landed upon a tall, robust man clad in leather armor with broad buckles and metal studs, similar in cut and style to Zevran's. The man examined her as curiously, a cunning gleam in his dark, hardened eyes that peered out at her from a striking, masculine face featuring a broad nose and full lips. The man paced towards the edge of the landing to get a better look at her before he bowed, giving the formal gesture a flouncy wave of his hand, even as his eyes contemplated her threateningly.

"The Crows send their greetings…Once again," he purred brazenly.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the delays. Work's been...work. And Denerim is such a convoluted wacky mess to untangle into something linearly smooth...But I'm here: braving the wilderness. Someone hold me. Preferably Zevran. *Cheeky grin*
> 
> 50 chapters later...almost a year gone by since I first published this fic. What an amazing thing: write fanfic= exchange messages with wildly awesome, smart, hilarious, and talented people. 
> 
> It's been a pleasure. Thank you. I can't say it enough- it's never taken for granted.
> 
> *Bows reverently.*


	51. Chapter 51

The silvery rasp of weapons drawn from scabbards and sheaths sounded behind Jayne as she gripped her own sword.

Other armored figures emerged in the deserted courtyard.

Behind her, Sten let out a low grunt.

They had all assembled back around each other defensively, examining the band of attackers settling into position with ease.

Zevran brushed past Jayne's shoulders swiftly, standing between her and the piercing glare of the imposing man.

"So they sent you, Taliesen?"

 _Taliesen_. Zevran had spoken that name before—he'd been the one…the one who'd killed Rinna.

"Or did you volunteer for the job?" he smirked darkly.

The man approached the edge of the landing with a cruel, overconfident grin on his lips.

"I volunteered, of course!" he explained in a silken tone. "When I heard that the great Zevran had gone rogue…I simply had to see it for myself!"

She knew that head tilt of Zevran's—his eyes remained locked on his target, but his ears listened, always cognizant of what else was transpiring around them on the battleground. His hands hung loosely by his hips, but she knew well the speed at which they could spring upwards to seize his weapons.

They all remained in a tense stillness, as if sustaining a deep breath.

"Is that so!" Zevran continued, feigning surprise. "Well, here I am, in the flesh!" he announced, splaying his hands before himself in an inviting gesture.

The men glared at each other for a few moments longer. A rustling sounded from above one of the rooftops. Jayne gazed up and found two men aiming their arrows at them.

Taliesen's expression eased for a moment as he contemplated his former comrade's face.

"You can return with me, Zevran," he said calmly. "I know why you did this, and I don't blame you. It's not too late," he beckoned.

Jayne's heart thudded madly in her chest even as she held her position.

Could this be a temptation too great to refuse? Her eyes darted to Zevran. He was being offered a clean, blank slate. He'd return to all he knew, all he was, before. She knew there was a tremendous difference between reinventing oneself because there was no other choice and because there was a sincere desire to do so. She tightened her grip around her pommel, her jaw tensing.

 _I know you, Zevran. You are more than what the Crows would make of you. Please_ , she implored in her mind.

If ever she needed to be proven right about any of the wild chances she had taken during the tortuous twists and turns her fate had forced her down, it was right then, when putting Zevran's nature to the test.

 _Please_ , she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, the closest thing to a prayer she could bring herself to offer as she contemplated that back she had embraced, kissed and caressed for so many nights since her wanderings had begun.

"Come back and we'll make up a story. Anyone can make a mistake," Taliesen continued encouragingly, his eyes examining his former companion shrewdly and with a familiarity that discomfited her.

"Do not listen to him, Zevran," she whispered, the sole, but truthful, countering words she had to give him right then.

With his head still turned sideways, he risked a glance at her.

"Do not worry," he stated steadily. "I am not about to return to the loving arms of the Crows, believe me."

Taliesen scoffed loudly.

"You are going to lose, Taliesen," Zevran continued, pacing before the stairwell. He unsheathed his daggers. The metal glinted coolly in the afternoon light. "You are going to lose badly," he said more pointedly.

Taliesen's brow furrowed deeply.

"What?" he spat. "You've gone soft in the head!" he cried in disbelief. "The Crows will make you pray for death, you fool!" he declared scornfully.

"Perhaps they will at that. But I'll take what time I have." The two men locked gazes for a while, something wordless and meaningful passing between them. "You have a choice, Taliesen…" he said with surprising concern all of a sudden. He glanced around the courtyard. "All of you do."

Taliesen's face scrunched up into a sneer.

"Traitor," he accused.

"It aggrieves me to fight you, Taliesen," Zevran continued solemnly. "We were friends once…and more," he said in a lower voice. "But sorry my old friend; the answer is no…I'm not coming back…And you should have stayed in Antiva."

The man signaled angrily, but before any of his men could react, a sharp whistle pierced the air as an arrow lodged itself in a rooftop assailant's chest. Leliana rapidly seized another arrow, rearming her crossbow.

"Morrigan—now!" she cried out.

Morrigan stamped her foot forward and fired a flaming bolt at the second rooftop attacker, causing the man to careen off the sloped roof, screaming in agony.

The crowd of assailants fell upon them. Jayne heaved her sword into a deadly arc in front of her as Oghren and Alistair charged another set of assassins. To her left, she saw an unfortunate figure being swooped up by Sten's capable arms. She managed to deflect a pair of daggers aimed at her and retreated slightly, gathering her footing, watching the lithe figure that had attacked her deftly crouch into a defensive position. She lunged forward, striking another sweeping arc, overpowering her challenger as the blade slashed deeply into his neck. She wrenched the blade away as the assassin remained petrified on the ground, with an incredulous look in his eyes as the blood spurted from the large gash.

 _Gruesome_ , she winced. _Unfortunately_ , _I have mastered this move all too well now_.

When she glanced up, she noticed Zevran staggering, seemingly disoriented at the top of the stairwell as he frantically rubbed at his eyes. Further ahead, bounding down the steps with a determined scowl was Taliesen. His dagger was aimed directly at her and his other hand remained curled into a tight fist. When she rushed forward, the assassin also leapt towards her. She effectively raised her sword to block his attack. The blade grated against her sword forcefully, only to evade her parry and strike the plate over her chest.

 _Too close_ , she thought angrily. _And how does he expect to strike at me through my armor?_

But Taliesen had not stopped his attacks against her. His strikes were ineffective, but they were intentionally so. With each of his attacks, he managed to make her retreat further as she sought a better angle and opportunity to lunge at him. When she had been backed into a corner of the courtyard, facing him, he deliberately raised his fist before his face.

 _What is he doing?_ she puzzled.

With a swift motion he thrust his fist towards her and flung the powdery contents of his hand into her face. She managed to bow her head down before it hit her in full, but her eyes immediately burned, watering, as she tried to brush away the gritty dirt from her eyes.

Before she could get her bearings, Taliesen toppled her to the ground. Around her the sounds of battle unfurled along with grunts, shouts, and cries. A knee painfully pushed into her chest, causing her to gasp for air. She stirred ferociously beneath the knee and she felt the edge of a blade unsuccessfully rake over the skin of her neck.

 _This is no warning, Jayne!_ _This is no negotiation_. _If you let that dagger find its roost, it is over_.

"It seems like my punishment in this life is fixing all your fuck-ups, Zevran," Taliesen called out maliciously. "Or should I say, all your 'fucks?'"

She blinked through her irritated, teary eyes, unable to see clearly, but punched out blindly in front of her, hitting something soft. The pressure over her chest eased up and she attempted to shove the figure off her. He would not budge, but before she could venture another blind blow, she heard a furious shout and something colliding into them, toppling Taliesen off her chest and down to her side. She didn't waste a moment dragging her sword up as she scampered to her feet. Although her eyes were stinging something terrible and everything before her seemed blurry, she could make out that Taliesen was still on the ground, grappling with Zevran. When he noticed she had gotten back on her feet, he escaped Zevran's grasp, and scuttled up to her, two daggers in each of his hands now.

 _You could kick the Archedemon to death_ , she remembered Zevran telling her.

She diverted the assassin's attention to her blade, making a big show of hoisting it back up, and when she noticed Taliesen's eyes follow the course of her blade, gauging what openings she had left him, she hurtled her leg out in a firm kick against the side of his knee, causing to it to bend unnaturally. The man cried out in agony and tumbled ungracefully to his side. She lost no time in chasing him, even as he desperately dragged himself over the ground away from her.

Jayne stabbed her sword solidly between the man's shoulder blades. She did not even wait to see him tremble and convulse to his death before extricating the blade and backing into the courtyard once more to determine where she should go next. She dabbed at her eyes and noticed Zevran crouching by the bottom of the stairwell, his face frozen in a horrified expression.

She panicked.

He stood alone, his hand gripping the end of the stone railing, his chest heaving as his head turned to and fro.

_Is he all right? Something is wrong!_

Further away, Oghren was making short order of a final assailant while Sten stood behind him watching appraisingly.

"He's dead," the Qunari observed.

"Really? I can't tell from here!" Oghren said in an irritated voice, hoisting up his maul.

Alistair, she noticed, was still shimmering from Wynne's protective spell, and Leliana was squatting next to Morrigan, who was sitting on the cobblestones clutching her knee.

"Everyone all right?" Jayne cried out, rushing towards the steps. At the sound of her voice, Zevran's face relaxed and he bowed his head.

"You need to watch where you swing that mace!" she heard Leliana's voice behind her.

"Fine, but she needs to watch where I swing my mace!" Ogren complained.

"Let me take a look, dear," Wynne interrupted.

"It hurts right here—" Oghren began.

"Not you!" Leliana and Wynne yelled.

Jayne gripped Zevran's arm reassuringly.

"Are you hurt?"

He looked up at her, his eyes red and watery.

"I can't see," he complained. "The bastard threw a fistful of blinding powder in my face and ran."

"So that's what it was," she remarked. She wiped at her eyes, which were still throbbing. "What is in this powder?"

"Ash, dirt, ground pepper," he stated. "Sometimes ground glass."

She squeezed his hand tightly.

"Wynne!" she shouted over her shoulder, terrified, realizing that he was still unable to see.

He squeezed her hand back.

"I'll be all right. There was no ground glass in this batch," he stated morosely. "I am quite sure he would have wanted me to witness the extent of his handiwork before making an example of me."

She heard footsteps hurrying to them.

"Is he all right?" Wynne huffed, cupping his face into her hands and turning his head this way and that. "Oh, he got you in both eyes," she mumbled. "Stop rubbing at them—it only makes the oils spread," she cautioned him, slapping his hand down.

"But he just said there is no oil—"Jayne began.

"The pepper," Wynne explained, reaching into her satchel.

She took out some gauze and poured the contents of a small vial into it. "This will do for right now." She placed the wet gauze over both eyes.

He hissed slightly, but did not let go of Jayne's hand.

Alistair offered Wynne his canteen.

"I haven't refilled it since we arrived, but it's still halfway full. Will it help?"

"Thank you," she said, politely declining. "But water won't help either. We need to get to a market…or even a tavern nearby," she declared.

"We need to get out of here," Sten said warily, as if listening to noises beyond the courtyard's walls.

"Yes—let's head out now," Leliana agreed, adjusting her crossbow's strap over her shoulder and helping Morrigan to her feet.

"My knee—" she protested, grimacing.

Before she could protest further, Sten hefted her into his arms and began marching down the alley.

Jayne took Zevran's arm and she and Wynne helped him negotiate the walk.

"Watch for the corpse!" Oghren offered helpfully.

* * *

They stole out of the deserted courtyard quickly, passing the narrow alleyway, past shuttered windows and down the desolate street. Just as they turned the corner, they heard the loud clattering of armor and voices speaking loudly and agitatedly.

Leliana peeked out cautiously.

"Denerim guards," she whispered. "Quick—let's go before they discover the bodies."

"We need to find a tavern—fast," Alistair decided, picking up his pace and stepping ahead to guide them. They were wandering parallel from the main street leading back towards the bridge. "Wait here—we'll attract less attention if we don't wander out in the middle of the road all splattered in blood," he stated.

* * *

"The Blowhole," Oghren read the sign out loud nodding his head. "Sounds cozy," he chuckled.

They wandered into the dingy tavern, an odor of stale beer wafting up from the sticky floorboards.

"Afternoon," the barkeep greeted them. "What can I get…" his voice trailed off as he noticed their bloodstained armor. "Maker," he gulped. He seemed a few seconds away from bursting out the door and calling the same guards they had just managed to evade.

"Hullo there," Oghren stepped up, pushing past them all. "Can you offer us a quiet nook in your tavern? We just arrived in your city and it is just as well. We barely managed to escape with our lives from a band of brigands," he announced. "Blight's made everyone desperate. Bastards ambushed us just a mile before we reached the city. What have things come to?" he lamented.

The man appeared to revive momentarily. Other patrons who had stopped to observe the scene unfurl returned to their tankards and conversation. "The Blight? Is it that bad already?" he asked apprehensively.

"We haven't dealt with it as much," he lied. "But you wouldn't believe the amount of highway men lurkin' on the roads. Just waiting to prey on good unsuspectin' folk trying to flee," he explained. "See, this here is my band of militia fighters," he continued.

 _He's oddly inspired_ , Jayned thought, as bewildered as the lot of them.

"We were hired to protect a caravan, but ran into some trouble."

The barkeep nodded, impressed.

"I know they aren't much to look at right now," Oghren continued apologetically, indicating their party. " We barely made it out alive this time, did we?" he called out rousingly at them. "But under my expert guidance they will someday become a force to be reckoned with!"

They all cast baffled glances at the dwarf.

"Let me offer you a table in one of our function rooms," the barkeep stated helpfully, indicating a narrow hallway. "I can bring you some water, soap, and rags, if you'd like to clean up your wounds," he stated. "And should I start a tab for you and your troops?

"Yes!" he exclaimed. "Charge everything to Arl—"

"We will be paying in coin," Jayne quickly interrupted. "If that's all right, oh fearless leader," she quickly amended, nodding to Oghren.

"Oh, it's all right," Oghren smiled jovially. "That works too. Make it a round of tankards—a glass of wine, and…" He peered around inquisitively.

"A glass of milk," Wynne requested, smiling kindly at the barkeep.

They were escorted to a quiet room off the hallway—a pleasant fire crackled and a modest, threadbare rug brightened up the otherwise drab room. They fell heavily on the benches running along either side of the long table.

"Band of militia fighters?" Alistair grimaced.

"I wish he'd ask me my name already!" Oghren added giddily.

"Maker preserve me," Wynne sighed, checking on Zevran's eyes. "You really must stop touching your eyes—you'll only make it worse."

"What's your mercenary name then?" Leliana goaded him on, helping Morrigan stretch her leg over a chair.

"Bak."

Alistair rolled his eyes, keeping watch over the hallway.

"As in 'Master Frost Bak,'" he shrugged. "I like it. Has a toughness built in to it."

Zevran couldn't help chuckling lightly despite his sorry state.

The barkeep brought a bucket and a few worn rags and quickly carried in some ales, wine, and one glass of milk.

"You are in luck, madam—our cook was about to use the last of the milk to cook the chowder for dinner," he explained.

"Why, thank you," Wynne replied sweetly.

When he stepped out of the room, Leliana began scrubbing at the bloodstains on her greaves. Sten and Oghren took a sip of their ale and Morrigan leaned back tiredly.

"We should try to get out of here before it gets dark," Alistair suggested. He cast a reproachful glance at Morrigan. "Worst shopping trip ever."

Morrigan glared back at him.

When the barkeep returned with the last of their tankards, Morrigan leaned inquisitively towards him.

"Excuse me. Would you happen to know where a shop called 'Wonders of Thedas' is located?" she asked.

The man grinned affably.

"Certainly. If you head down over the bridge and make your way towards the main market square, it is right off the square.

They all exchanged troubled glances.

"A good point of reference is The Gnawed Noble tavern—it's just further up that same alley."

"You don't say," Oghren mumbled, crestfallen.

"I can't believe it," Morrigan grumbled once the man left. "We were right next to it the whole time."

"See? I wasn't a bad map reader after all!" Alistair retorted smugly. "I just had a bad map."

Wynne lifted the glass of milk and dabbed fresh gauze into it.

"Here," she said gently, placing the soaked gauze over his eyes. "This will stop the burning."

He raised his hand and held it in place.

"The barmaid was probably spying on us. Someone probably followed us to the tavern and paid her for information," Zevran said. "I should have thought of that," he stated regretfully.

"Should we go back for her?..." Leliana wondered, passing the bucket and the bundle of rags to Alistair.

Zevran shook his head.

"She's probably long gone by now. The money she was given most likely paid for her escape from here," he added, blinking tentatively.

His gaze hovered over Jayne and he smiled tenderly.

"You are, quite literally, a sight for sore eyes, my dear Warden."

Jayne smiled back.

"Is it really over?" he asked. "Were they all dead?"

"Yes. And I believe Oghren killed some of them… twice," Alistair smirked.

"And Taliesen?" he asked warily, closing his eyes and dabbing the gauze over them once more.

"Dead," Leliana stated. "He tried the same blinding powder trick on Jayne. She was holding him off, but thankfully you barreled into him in time."

"Ah," he responded. "I hoped I had tackled the right person," he frowned.

"What did Taliesen mean when he said you were friends and more?" Alistair wondered.

A groan resounded throughout the room. Zevran remained still.

"Taliesen was… my best friend," he said seriously as the others fell silent. "And with that you now have a good idea of what my life was like in Antiva," he stated, placing the glass of milk back on the table. "Sad, no?…" he began, smirking and shaking his head. He paused and took stock of the room, his eyes bloodshot and red rimmed. "I appreciate what you did today for me," he addressed all of them, sincerely.

Leliana was so moved, she stretched her arm warmly over Morrigan's shoulders, unaware of the murderous glares she was being subjected to.

"Pshaw, elf," Oghren said, somewhat bashfully, drawing his tankard near.

"Let me see your knee," Wynne addressed Morrigan, taking her wine glass over to the other side of the table.

Leliana played assistant to Wynne, much to Morrigan's chagrin, while Sten began wiping off the stains over his legs and Oghren sipped his ale. Alistair moved towards the fire, to begin drying off some of his armor. As they engaged in different conversations, Zevran reached across Jayne's lap and clasped her hand again.

"Is it really over?" he said in mild disbelief, running his thumb over the back of her hand.

She nodded, relieved.

"This turned out better than I could have hoped," he said. "But I never expected Taliesen to be so underhanded. This should have been settled between the two of us. Assassins' honor. The fact he went after you instead, incapacitating me…" he stated, growing agitated.

"It's over," she said, remembering how the blade had grazed her neck.

"I don't know what I would have done if his plan had succeeded," he told her gravely. "I couldn't see what was happening," he stated dourly. "He left me there defenseless and I felt completely useless while you were in danger," he scolded himself. "It was one of the worst moments of my life," he confessed.

She looked at him, touched, and thought of the fear that had assailed her when Taliesen had made his invitation and offered him a reconciliation.

"It was for me too," she admitted.

"How did you ever defeat him?" he wondered.

She smiled again.

"I remembered something you said," she confided.

"Oh?" he expressed surprise. "I wonder what that may have been! I had no idea you were actually listening…I thought all this time you may have been distracted by…my other attributes," he stated playfully.

"Remember that time I kicked you, when we were sparring at the Dalish camp?" she asked, moving closer.

He squeezed his eyes shut and open once more.

"Of course! We weren't exactly sparring; you were more hellbent in pummeling me into the ground, but—very well—go on."

"You noted I had a strong kick and could probably—"

"—kick the Archedemon to death," he grinned. "Well done," he said affectionately. "And since you have also defeated the once legendary-but-not-as-legendary-as-I-am Taliesen, I don't feel so bad about having been defeated by you," he teased contentedly.

He rested his chin over his fist and contemplated her.

"And there it is," he sighed. "Taliesen is dead…and I'm free of the Crows. They will assume that I am dead along with Taliesen. So long as I do not make my presence known to them, they will not seek me out."

She blinked at him.

"That's a good thing, right?"

"A _very_ good thing," he emphasized. "It is, in fact, what I had hoped for ever since you decided not to kill me," he told her.

By then, Leliana, Sten and Oghren had joined Alistair by the fire. Wynne was going over instructions on healing spells to mend fractures and broken bones, fielding Morrigan's curiosity.

Jayne returned her attention to Zevran, who continued to examine her expression.

"I suppose it would be possible for me to leave now… if I wished," he spoke up again, his eyes downcast. "I could go far away, somewhere the Crows would never find me," he stated pensively.

She gripped her tankard tightly, letting the light froth touch her lips. It tasted too bitter.

 _And this is where I am reminded this is not real… or for keeps_ , she thought with a pang. She remained silent, waiting for him to speak.

"I think, however, that I could also stay here," he continued, searching her face for any reactions. "I made an oath to help you, after all. And saving the world seems a worthy task to see through to the end, yes?" he declared in a more rallying tone.

The froth faded over the surface of the pewter tankard.

 _Perhaps he sees me more as a friend. A friend he cares for deeply… and is loyal to. Maybe that's as much as he can give. And can I blame him? Everyone he's ever loved is dead…or has tried to kill him_ , she surmised.

She peered into his eyes.

 _All this hurt I'll have to endure will be of my doing. It will be my punishment for not heeding his warning_.

It took all her willpower to utter her next words with the greatest semblance of sincerity.

"If you want to go, you should go." Despite the calm and genuine sentiment in her tone, she was unable to deflect the sadness she felt.

"But that is what I am _asking_ you. Do you want me to go?" he wondered, tilting his head, a twinge of fretfulness in his voice. "Do you need me…" he began almost pleadingly. "Here?" he quickly amended.

She furrowed her brow.

_What was that?_

She was going to lose her mind trying to read between the lines to desperately infer what she wanted to hear from him.

 _I love you_ , she blinked at him helplessly.

"I want you to do what's best for you," she insisted, averting her eyes.

She felt him examine her carefully.

"I…" he hesitated, shifting on the bench. "…Am not sure how to respond to that. Nobody has ever…" he stopped, grinning nervously. "I mean, normally, these things are decided by others," he stated.

 _Live with the consequence of your choices_ , she thought.

"Err…then I suppose I shall…" he began, flustered. "Stay?" he asked, terribly unsure. " Is that…good?" he wondered.

She sighed.

 _Why do you do this?_ she wondered. _Because as much as I want to tell you what my heart wants, I won't bind you here, to me,_ she thought defiantly. _Are you so afraid you cannot see what is so clear, Zevran?_ _I cannot tell if your reticence is because you do not want more to this or if its newness frightens you_ , she thought, staring at him.

He looked so lost at that moment though, it disarmed her.

"It would be hard to kiss you if you left," was all she managed to say. She had meant to say it flippantly, since she was frustrated enough with him, but ended up whispering softly instead— a whisper filled with longing and need.

He laughed quietly, caught off guard.

"You know…that is so very true," he agreed charmingly, edging closer and kissing her cheek. She turned her face to him and grazed his lips softly. She felt him smile against her lips and they kissed again.

"Hey, hey!" Oghren clapped loudly from the fireplace. "None of that at this respectable establishment!"

"Yes, none of that at the venerable Blowhole," Alistair joked.

* * *

"Everyone smile for the spies," Alistair said to them as they stepped back into the street, waving and smiling goofily.

They managed to mix in with the crowds of people heading home after the long day, passing merchants starting to close their stalls as dock workers ambled towards the market square for a nightly meal at one of the many taverns and scattered food vendors. They wove through the crowd purposefully and silently, finally reaching the gates of the Guerrin estate before daylight had completely faded. They parted ways at the top of the stairs, with Jayne and Alistair seeking out the Arl to update him on their findings and impressions. Once they approached the forbidding doorway to his offices, his seneschal emerged.

"I'm afraid he is not to be disturbed," the man declared. "He left strict instructions that he should not be interrupted."

"Would you kindly let him know we need to speak to him as soon as he is available?" Jayne requested.

Alistair shrugged as they wandered back to their wing of the estate.

"I could use a change of clothes," he sighed. "These are still damp," he told her, removing his gloves.

"Go," she told him reassuringly. "I need to check in with Bodhan anyway."

* * *

Just that morning they had all been overlooking that same courtyard wondering at the birds roosting over the roof. She couldn't help looking up at the rooftops every now and then, nervously searching for any indication that their entanglement with the Crows was far from over.

 _Well, my entanglement with a certain Crow…hopefully isn't_ , she sighed, as she watched Rune sniff happily over a mound of dug up dirt.

She sat on the edge of the fountain's basin at the center of the courtyard, its vasques dry and dusty, brittle leaves collecting at the bottom and rust stains trailing down the white stone as she watched the Mabari romp about in the twilight.

That Zevran would even bring up leaving hurt her deeply. But had he meant it? Or had he been testing her? Trying to gauge a reaction? Why would he do such a thing? It was so unlike him to behave in such a way when it came to such matters. And she hadn't played any games. She had remained steadfast and constant in her affections. Hadn't she? Couldn't he tell? Maybe he couldn't tell. He had been able to separate his feelings from sex. For all his worldliness in the bedroom, perhaps he was quite inexperienced in another facet of love.

 _What do I do?_ she wondered, feeling terribly unsure, occasionally seized by the desire to march up those stairs and tell him honestly and clearly how she felt. She wanted him to know that she was willing to lay claim to and honor what they had with all her heart, all her soul— and would, for as long as she lived, she knew.

 _It's you, and you alone, and no other who knows me—helped me navigate all these changes, shown me that I am still myself despite this world's persistence in shattering all I believed sacred. You, who despite all the ugliness in your life, despite witnessing all the cruelty humanity falls prey to because of pettiness and greed, still hope, still seek for those glints of goodness in others. Won't you stay?_ she thought sadly. _Won't you accept this love and take it as deservedly yours?_

She startled from her thoughts when Rune looked up and let out a bark, his tail wagging excitedly. When she turned, she gasped.

 _Well, I have been thinking of him so much…I may as well have summoned him_ , she realized as she saw Zevran emerge on the path leading from the garden's entrance. He sauntered over after raising his finger at Rune.

"Sssh! You are a very bad dog, you know that? You'd make a terrible assassin."

She watched him take a seat by her side.

"How are your eyes?" she asked.

"Wynne said I shouldn't strain them further, so I decided I'd avoid looking at Oghren for the rest of the evening," he smirked.

She couldn't help smiling.

They sat in silence, watching as Rune rolled over the ground contentedly, punctuating his stretching session with a loud snort.

She noticed Zevran fingering the thin rawhide strap that secured the small pouch he wore around his neck. He carefully slung it over his head and toyed with the thin pouch straps before emptying the contents into his hands. She diverted her gaze, looking ahead, wondering where all her resolve had faded off to, telling herself that his being there, like that, was enough.

He turned to her, a small, glinting object sitting between his thumb and indicator.

"Here," he exhaled. "It seems an appropriate moment to give you this," he stated, peering at her.

She recognized the earring he'd asked her to hold for him when they played Wicked Grace what felt like so long ago. The little yellow diamonds sparkled warmly even in the dwindling daylight.

She grinned broadly at him, touched by the gesture.

"You don't need to give me anything," she told him earnestly.

His brow furrowed.

"I may not need to…but I want to," he insisted.

He uttered the words with conviction as he held his hand to her with the earring pinched between his fingers.

"I acquired it on my very first job for the Crows," Zevran continued telling her. "A Rivaini merchant prince, and he was wearing a single, jeweled earring when I killed him. In fact, that's about all he was wearing," Zevran reminisced with amusement. "I thought it was beautiful…and took it to mark the occasion. I've kept it since…" He took a deep breath. "And I'd like you to have it."

She took it gingerly. It was an elegant, delicate piece of jewelry. As it rested in her hand, she realized it wasn't so much the fact that such an article was worth a small fortune… but that it had been something he had cherished and carried with him for so long…and that he would give and entrust it to her.

She smiled shyly and turned it slowly from side to side, marveling in how the stones caught the light. He observed her with an inscrutable expression as he rubbed his palms nervously over his knees.

"Thank you, Zevran," she said, overcome. "It's so beautiful!" she told him in a heartfelt manner, deeply moved by his gesture.

 _It is enough_ , she thought. It was a reassurance, a token of affection, and it meant the world to her.

She leaned over to kiss his cheek, pressing her lips lovingly over the black swoops inked over his warm golden skin.

He smiled too, but kept his gaze fixed to the ground.

"Don't get the wrong idea about it," he said suddenly. "You killed Taliesen. As far as the Crows will be concerned, I died with him. That means I'm free—at least for now."

She startled a bit at his words, searching his face for the usual rakish grin, trying to discern if he was teasing her.

"Feel free to sell it, or wear it…or whatever you'd like," he continued breezily, staring ahead.

She stared at the earring in her palm feeling an odd tightness in her chest.

"It's really the least I could give you in return," he shrugged with a tight smile.

 _Oh_.

Her mind went blank—all the tenderness was replaced by a nameless hurt.

_I read too much into the gesture._

_It's merely payment for services rendered. Such a significant deed warrants a hefty prize,_ she thought, her lips pressed tightly against each other.

_Some delusions are hard to sustain. Their cost is too high. I've been lying to myself enough. How many times will he have to remind me, to draw the line between us?_

_Jayne, you're an idiot_ , she scolded herself. _Command yourself. It is what it is and enjoy it for that_ , she cautioned herself against her rising anger.

Yet, she couldn't help herself.

"So…not a token of affection," she asked blatantly, raising the earring between them.

He was the one to startle at her reaction. He appeared to be at a loss for words.

"I…look, just…just take it!" he said exasperatedly. "It's meant a lot to me, but so have…" he cleared his throat uneasily. "So has what you've done." He wrapped his fingers around her hand and guided her clenched fist to her chest. "Please… take it," he asked gently.

Her head resounded with his unfinished phrase: "It's meant a lot to me, but so have…"

It nettled and pricked at her in a persistent manner that was causing her head to spin.

_Enough. I won't be bought off. I did what I did because it was the right thing to do, because I love you with all my heart._

_I cannot keep this,_ she decided _. Every time I look at it I will be reminded of how the man I love gave me one of his most prized possessions with the utmost indifference._

 _Feel free to sell it, or wear it…or whatever you'd like_ , he taunted her in her head. _It's really the least I could give you in return._

 _The least I could give you in return,_ she repeated with mounting irritation. _The least!_

_Yes. My care, concern, and love for you can be quantified and bought._

She unclenched her fist and coolly offered him the earring in her palm.

"I'll only take it if it means something," she informed him with more hurt in her voice than she would have liked to betray. Her gaze was steely, though. That was not something he could ignore.

He balked—an incredulous expression surfacing over his features as he realized she was not pleased anymore.

"You are a very frustrating woman to deal with, do you know that?" he complained, plucking the earring from her hand with an indignant scowl. "We pick up every other bit of treasure we come across, but not this!" he emphasized sarcastically.

She folded her arms over her chest. They faced off, glaring at each other for a few moments until he hastily tugged at the rawhide strip, pulling up the pouch beneath his shirt again and fumbled for a few seconds depositing the earring back inside.

"You don't want the earring? You don't get the earring! Very simple!" he fumed.

Rune surprised them both by barking agitatedly.

"You stay out of this," he warned, pointing crossly at the Mabari.

The creak of a door opening caused them both to startle and turn towards the sound.

"Excuse me," it was the Eamon's seneschal. "The Arl has called for you to join him in his office at once. He has an urgent matter he needs to discuss with the Grey Wardens."

She turned to look at Zevran, a sad, despondent look on her face.

 _Here we go again. We can't even try to sort matters out before duty whisks us away_ ," she thought dourly.

His expression softened.

"Go," he tilted his head towards the door. "We'll talk later." She hesitated, glancing at Rune. "And I'll get Rune back to Bodhan and Sandal," he sighed with resignation, as if guessing at her thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Big chapter today. Because it's been a while. And because I published the first chapter of this fic (on FF at first) exactly a year ago. Whee! Happy anniversary! *Throws confetti up into the air.*
> 
> Dialogue from the game was incorporated into this chapter: Taliesen encounter and the fateful earring offering...


	52. 52.

Eamon's seneschal escorted Jayne and Alistair up the stairs to an imposing wooden door. He knocked briefly and then flicked the door open for them. They had arrived just in time to catch the tail end of a conversation.

"It'll be resolved—" Eamon was stating in a reassuring tone. "They should be—Ah, Warden!" he exclaimed, turning towards them as they entered the expansive room. As he rose from a chair, Jayne finally saw who his mysterious guest was: an elegantly dressed elvhen woman with dark hair and pouty lips.

"I trust you've made yourself comfortable," he addressed them courteously as Alistair sauntered in behind her.

"Yes. Very nice," she offered distractedly as she noticed the woman examining her.

"Good!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands together uneasily. " Because it's likely to be your last rest for a while," Eamon added.

He indicated the woman examining them.

"This is Erlina."

Jayne nodded her head politely.

"She's—" he began.

"I am Queen Anora's handmaiden," the woman interrupted. "She sent me here to ask for your help."

The woman's accent was unmistakably Orlesian.

"Or perhaps the young lady prefers to speak for herself!" Eamon remarked in slight bemusement, stepping away.

"Why would Anora ask us for help?" Jayne puzzled.

Erlina's face clouded.

"The Queen, she is in a difficult position. She loved her husband, no? And trusted her father to protect him. When he returns with no king and only dark rumors, what is she to think?" she argued passionately. "She worries, no? But when she tries to speak with him, he does not answer. He tells her 'not to trouble herself.'"

 _What a shining endorsement of faith in his own daughter's capabilities_ , Jayne frowned.

"Are you saying the Queen believes Loghain killed Cailan?" she asked bluntly.

The woman cast her a calculating glance.

"My queen suspects she cannot trust her father. And Loghain, he is very subtle, no? But Rendon Howe, he is privy to all the secrets and…not so subtle."

 _Now this is definitely interesting_.

It gave her no small amount of relief to know that perhaps the Queen herself did not embrace Loghain's alliance with Howe. That was something reassuring to go on.

"So she goes to Howe," Erlina continued her narrative. "A visit from the Queen to the new Arl of Denerim is only a matter of courtesy. And she demands answers."

"I guess that didn't go well," Jayne concluded from Erlina's furrowed brow.

"He calls her every sort of name, 'traitor' being the kindest, and locks her in a guest room," she confided tensely.

Howe probably bristled at having the Queen nipping at his heels, Jayne imagined. Not only had he grown powerful, his prejudices could now run wild and unchecked. It was no secret that Howe was notoriously resentful of women, starting with his own wife. That was probably the reason why he hadn't tried to entice and influence Anora. He preferred to access Loghain directly and wag his venomous tongue with impunity.

 _Still…it was too easy,_ she thought uneasily. _Erlina's tale is too convenient._

"She has soldiers: let them free her," Jayne shrugged.

She caught a glimpse of Alistair's alarmed stare. Erlina leaned towards her, pleadingly.

"If the palace guard besiege Howe's estate, my lady will certainly be killed before they can reach her!" she protested. "I think…her life is in danger. I heard Howe say she would be a greater ally dead than alive. Especially if her death could be blamed on Arl Eamon," she revealed.

Eamon stared at her pensively. Jayne wondered if he also suspected Erlina was feeding them a story that would lead them directly to a trap.

"Would Loghain kill his own daughter just to frame Eamon?" Jayne asked incredulously.

His daughter Anora was why he had been able to grasp at the throne in the first place. Surely he understood that the doting father assisting his daughter during her time of bereavement façade had begun to wear thin with Fereldans. The queen was, after all, beloved by her people. His was an ungraceful attempt to wrest power from a capable, popular ruler at a delicate time. The risk he was taking was tremendous…but perhaps, the turmoil was already such that one more upset did not cause the ripples it once would have.

If what Erlina suggested was true, then Loghain was too far gone—lost to Howe's machinations, Jayne surmised.

Eamon broke the silence.

"We may have no choice but to trust Anora. The queen is well-loved. If Loghain succeeded in pinning her death on me…" his voice trailed off worriedly. "I'm not sure that's a risk we can afford to take," he warned.

Plainly speaking, Jayne knew, without Eamon, there would be no Landsmeet. Without Eamon buttressing their cause publicly, throwing all his political capital behind them, they would all be whisked away and executed without no significant objections, she understood.

 _And Loghain is being led by Howe, who is shortsighted in his aspirations. He is so arrogant and obsessed by his lust for power that he is willing to place his ambitions before the future and well-being of the entire kingdom,_ Jayne exhaled. _This is madness._

She contemplated Alistair for a moment.

Still, it was an opportunity. An opportunity she had worried she would never have.

"You're right," she agreed. " We have to help." Trap or no trap, that was her summons, her chance to stop Howe.

Erlina exhaled in a showing of relief. She lowered her voice and addressed her conspiratorially.

"I have some uniforms. Arl Howe hires so many new guards every day, a few more will not cause much stir."

Jayne looked up in surprise. She remembered Zevran's guess about Howe's growing paranoia.

 _He was right. Again. And he'll be intolerable once I tell him the bit about disguising ourselves as guards_ …she smirked.

"I will show you to the servant's entrance. We must slip in and out with my Queen before anyone is the wiser," Erlina explained in her melodious accent. "I will go ahead to Howe's estate. Meet me there as soon as you can."

"Wait! We are going tonight? As in _now_?" Alistair cried out.

"We don't have the luxury of time," Erlina pressed on. "I fear what will become of the Queen if we do not act promptly!"

"Jayne?" Alistair appeared bewildered.

_Howe, it matters little at this point whether you are trying to lure me to finish off what you began at Highever, or if this is simply the consequence of a miscalculation in your trajectory to usurp even more power. Once I cross the threshold into your estate tonight, there will no turning back._

_Not for you._

_Not for me._

"We'll be there shortly," she declared. She cast Alistair a reassuring glance.

 _Everything Howe set into motion ends tonight_ , she thought darkly, a rush of fierceness overcoming her, goading and stiffening her resolve.

* * *

"Is this wise? Why do I feel like we are walking straight into the fire?" Alistair fretted as they made their way down the dim hallway together after the meeting.

"I have been waiting for all these long months for a chance to strike at Howe. I missed one opportunity—for all the right reasons, I know…But I am not letting another opportunity by again."

"And what if it is a trap? What if this Erlina really works for Howe?" he worried. "Jayne, you know I trust you, but when it comes to Howe..."his voice trailed off as he betrayed a troubled expression. "You might not be thinking as clearly."

_Spare me the judicious speech, Alistair!_

"Tell me then: is it any different from how you strategize when it comes to Loghain?" She halted halfway down to the room where they would be meeting with the others. "Or have you forgotten Duncan already?" she provoked.

Alistair backed away from her, hurt in his eyes.

"That is not fair," he told her. "And it is most certainly unlike you to say such a thing."

"It might be, but I'd know better than to assail you with platitudes on self-control if your blade were aiming for Loghain at long last. Here's an unpleasant truth, Alistair: sometimes justice and revenge conveniently converge," she retorted.

Alistair followed her silently, almost sullenly.

He was right to be cautious and prudent, of course, she knew, repressing the guilt that had begun to assail her over their argument. But Erlina's plan had stoked that fire inside her—she needed to confront Howe.

 _Tonight_ , she thought, her fists clenched. _This will all be resolved at last. One way or another_.

* * *

They all assembled in a small parlor as they listened to Alistair describe their meeting.

"So," he concluded, "can we all agree: trap?" He sought agreement from them.

"Indeed…It does sound very suspicious," Wynne seconded.

Leliana pushed away from the wall she had been leaning against as she listened to Alistair's narrative.

"You don't really think Loghain would allow his own daughter, the Queen of Ferelden, to remain captive," Leliana seconded.

"Perhaps… If she was making herself a nuisance by inquiring too much about the demise of her husband," Morrigan surmised.

"Hmm…I'd say listen to Morrigan because she can relate to this kind of familial conflict. She speaks from experience," Alistair jabbed.

Morrigan's face remained impassive.

"First of all, I am standing right here—I don't need you to interpret what I say like some cretin narrator. Second, how would you have resolved my…situation… with Flemeth? I doubt incessant whining would have stopped Flemeth from plotting to possess my body," Morrigan stated impatiently. "Although in your case, you wouldn't have had to worry: in the event of possession I suspect she would have found your head quite vacant."

"Heh!" Oghren chuckled at a discomfited Alistair.

Zevran rubbed his hands together excitedly.

"I, for one, think we should go!"

Jayne peered up at him.

"Combat this afternoon get you fired up?" Oghren tugged at his beard.

"Let's think about this: what do we do if it is a trap?" Leliana contended.

"If it is a trap, we will step into it prepared. But…I don't think it is a trap," he declared confidently.

"What makes you so sure it isn't a trap?" Sten puzzled.

"What is one very obvious detail all of you are overlooking?" He crossed his arms smugly.

"Just say it: it's the disguises, isn't it? You just want to parade around Denerim in costume," Alistair grumbled.

Zevran was about to speak, but instead lowered the finger he had pointed into the air.

"I have to say, Alistair: you are right. I am most pleased with this development, even if it seems like baiting to me. Can you all see it? We don our costumes, wander into the estate, are caught and swiftly accused of attempting to assassinate the Queen… And the fact we'll be wearing stolen uniforms? All part of an elaborate scheme that will doom Arl Eamon, as well. It's such an obvious trap I am almost embarrassed for them," he completed. "However!" he cried out, startling everyone. "There is that one thing I've mentioned that you are missing," he continued cockily.

"Go on elf: the suspense is killing me," Oghren muttered, unimpressed.

"Let him revel in his delusions of genius for a few moments longer before we shut him down," Alistair added.

Zevran swooped down dramatically to Jayne's side.

"You said Erlina is Anora's handmaiden?" Zevran inquired.

"Yes."

"And Eamon confirms this?"

"He did: quite clearly, too," she admitted.

He grinned widely and pursed his lips while slowly nodding and casting them a knowing glance.

"Interesting, isn't it?" he raised his eyebrows.

"What is?" Wynne sighed.

"That the Queen of Ferelden's handmaiden is… _Orlesian_!" he revealed triumphantly.

They all exchanged confounded glances.

"What did I miss?" Sten complained.

A smile slowly spread over Leliana's face as a realization dawned upon her.

"But of course!" she stated, clapping her hands together. "Loghain _hates_ Orlesians!"

"Tensions between father and the daughter must have existed for a while now," Zevran asserted. "I am certain of it. Think of it: the Queen has a trusted handmaiden who is Orlesian—if that isn't a slap in the face to her heroic Fereldan papa, I don't know what is. I am willing to bet Loghain grits his teeth anytime he hears the woman's accent. Why would his daughter do such a thing? Hire someone from the country that once oppressed your nation? Sounds like classic rebelliousness to me."

"Now that you mention it, it does sound odd," Wynne concurred.

Jayne grimaced.

"It's so little to go on, though. What if Anora is doing precisely the opposite: trying to exhibit Fereldan superiority by hiring an Orlesian in a subservient role? Besides, Erlina is an elf. That's entirely different than if she had hired an Orlesian who is human."

"Hmm…An Orlesian who is human. Does such a thing exist?" Alistair tapped his chin as if contemplating a conundrum. Leliana rolled her eyes at him.

"Think about it: it is a small aggression on Anora's part. You are trying to tell me there isn't anyone in Ferelden with Erlina's qualifications? Giving an Orlesian such access to the Queen mocks all those ideals these old independence heroes fought for."

"You might be reading too much into that: I have never been treated poorly in Ferelden despite my accent," Leliana challenged him.

"Yes, but you also have a tendency to explain how you are really Fereldan anytime the topic comes up, my dear Leliana. Perhaps you are merely trying to avoid an unpleasant exchange preemptively, no?" he asked.

Leliana tilted her head.

"I have to admit it is an interesting theory, Zevran…"

"Very well." Alistair glanced around the room. "So bait or no bait…Let's say we go to the estate. Then what?"

"We free the Queen, obviously. We win her esteem and she will show her appreciation by turning this Landsmeet in our favor!" Zevran stated, tapping his finger on the table.

"To save the Queen we must confront Howe," Jayne announced.

"This conversation is going in circles," Sten muttered.

"The estate will be heavily guarded," Alistair objected. "They must be prepared for the eventuality of an infiltration or something of the sort."

Jayne rose from the bench she had been sitting on.

"Let's plan our approach then," she announced. "Leliana, Sten, and—"

"Oh, I'm going," Zevran informed her defiantly. "You can save your breath."

"I'm going too," Oghren volunteered.

"No, Oghren. Not this time. There are no dwarves among Howe's forces. Unfortunately you would stand out."

"When she says 'stand out', she means 'look ludicrous,' Zevran clarified.

"If I am going to stand out, then so is he," Oghren pointed at Sten grumpily.

"That's a good point," Morrigan indicated. "The uniforms won't fit either one of you properly."

Sten glared at Oghren.

"Fine: Leliana, Morrigan, and Zevran," Jayne decided.

"And Oghren, Sten, and Wynne on backup," Oghren completed.

"Thank you, Oghren, but I am issuing the commands," Jayne warned.

_I could do without Master Frost Bak here second-guessing me._

"Don't feel bad: I didn't even get asked," Wynne muttered.

She contemplated Alistair and braced herself.

"I will need you to remain here."

"You can't be serious!" he interjected, upset she had dared to propose such a thing.

 _Everyone is growing a little more unruly, a little less apt to follow orders_ , she frowned.

"Weren't you the one urging me to be rational and cautious just moments ago? Then consider this: if I don't survive, the task of killing the Archdemon will be entirely yours."

It was a simple, logical argument and it did not invite rebuke.

Alistair stared at her in disbelief and shook his head.

"I don't care what you say: I am going. You can't stop me. You are going to have to knock me out cold and tie me down to a pillar if you don't want me to go," he announced emotionally.

"I believe that can be arranged," Morrigan offered with sly eagerness.

"There is no—"

"I have a score to settle with Howe as well. Howe is also guilty—even if indirectly— for the demise of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden and for Cailan's death: those reasons alone make this entire matter my business, too.

"Alistair…I assure you. I am not rushing into this head-on and I do not doubt your skills. I am merely being prudent. Of the two of us," she attempted to reason with him, "I am the more expendable Warden."

"I really beg to differ," Zevran quipped from behind her.

"We have been in dire situations before, back when it was only the two of us. You can use my help," Alistair declared boldly, unwilling to back down.

She stared at his earnest face, his eyes grave and his tone entreating. A sharp pang of shame overcame her. She was as hell bent on getting her way at whatever the cost.

 _Not so different from Rendon Howe, perhaps_.

She didn't like the idea; she didn't want to expose Alistair to any unnecessary danger. But as he stood before her challenging her commands, she realized that she could only impose her will on him for so long. Hadn't she encouraged him to contemplate the throne? Maric had fought in the battles for Fereldan independence and Eamon had fought fiercely for Redcliffe… Did she really expect Alistair to acquiesce to sitting aside tamely as he waited to ascend to the throne while others fought for him?

 _Would that be the course of action chosen by the king?_ she asked herself sheepishly. At least, any king she cared to support?

_I need to stop charting your course, cease telling you which battles to choose: I won't always be able to defend and protect you._

_But I believe in you,_ she admitted, her uptight expression softening as she contemplated Alistair.

"Very well," she conceded at last after an expectant silence. "Come, then."

"Really?" he beamed giddily, his eyes widening.

Morrigan snorted from across the room.

"We'll confront Howe together." She rested her hand on his shoulder. "We'll seek justice for my family, the Grey Wardens, for Cailan and…"

"Duncan," Alistair added, taking a deep breath.

Jayne nodded in a conciliatory manner.

"Sten, Oghren, and Wynne—you will come with us, but I need you to stay back and provide cover. If for any reason something goes wrong—should more troops be summoned to the estate, for instance, we will need your aid," Jayne decided.

"Now you're talkin'" Oghren grinned, pleased.

Jayne surveyed the room, taking in her companions' expectant faces.

"Collect your weapons and don your armor. We leave on the hour," she informed them decisively. "Arl Eamon will provide us with a blueprint of the Arl of Denerim's estate. We can go over the details once we meet downstairs."

She stood aside watching their band disperse and leave the parlor.

Zevran remained seated across from her.

"Are you ready, Warden?" He was observing her shrewdly.

"I will be in a moment—I just need to put on my—"

"That's not what I meant." He leaned back into his chair and tilted his head. "You have waited for this moment a long time now. How do you feel?"

It was the tone of caution in his voice that unsettled her.

"Do you think we are embarking on a doomed mission?" she wondered.

"Oh, from the moment you recruited me!" he expressed with a chuckle, spreading his arms out. Upon noticing she did not smile back at him, he sat up on his chair. "Howe is a desperate man who has probably lain awake in his bed at night imagining every sort of dismal scenario. He is accustomed to it: he has made so many enemies. You can be sure he has several contingency plans. He will be ready for you, my dear. We will be waging an uphill battle."

"I know," she replied. "I'm not naïve enough to believe he isn't armed to the teeth, surrounded by bodyguards."

"Expect mages, too," Zevran added. "If Wynne and Morrigan can spare any potions…Anything to ward off spells…"

"Mages…" She appeared troubled.

Zevran leaned forward.

"I wish to ask you something."

"What is it?"

"Do be careful, amora," he whispered, taking her hand gingerly, his skin warm against hers.

She blinked at him slowly.

"Howe is no greater a challenge than any of the obstacles…The _many_ obstacles," she emphasized, "we have had to contend with, don't you agree? And I am ready for him, Zevran. I can and I _will_ fight him. I embark on this mission perfectly cognizant that it entails a very personal battle, but one that ultimately merges with Ferelden's interests and the greater good. With justice," she explained.

"Still," he insisted, his head downcast, caressing the back of her hand. "Listen to me: this is something I know. When you unleash your anger against Howe, and you take solace in his suffering, I can tell you right now: that hatred has the ability to consume everything. Including you."

Jayne pondered his words, his touch soothing.

"What are you saying then? That I should let Howe live?" she questioned with incredulity.

Zevran shook his head, a sad grin edging up the corner of his lips.

"Look, if I could, if I thought you would even consider the suggestion, I'd be the one to strike the final blow against Howe. I wouldn't be so presumptuous to propose such a thing to you, dear Warden. But I've seen men and women fall apart, lack purpose and even a desire to move forward once they've succeeded in doing away with the object of their hatred." He contemplated her with affection, peering into her eyes. "I do not want to lose you."

Jayne pressed her lips together tightly, the memory of their ill-fated exchange from that afternoon prickling at her once more.

_This roundabout way you have of disclosing your feelings is driving me insane._

She couldn't stand it anymore.

"What are you trying to say?"

"What do you mean what am I trying to say?" he balked. "I am just being honest with you…sharing what is in my—" he hesitated. "Mind," he completed quickly, furrowing his brow.

 _It's pointless_ , she groaned inwardly. _It's like he has been cursed with a spell that forbids him from saying anything that would remotely compromise him emotionally._

"Let's go," she uttered curtly. There were too many emotions to sort through and not enough time to properly ponder them. Not with their entire band assembling in the foyer momentarily.

"What's wrong?" he asked, following her.

 _I don't have time for this_ , she thought. She wanted to say something as vexing to him. When she turned, though, the words to a hastily conjured taunt died on her lips.

The way he was looking at her disarmed her. In his amber eyes she saw a helplessness, a longing that touched her deeply.

 _Weigh actions against words,_ her father had often repeated _. Promises are as vapid as smoke if they aren't grounded in acts._

Just as he was at that moment, she realized with a start, Zevran had always been by her side. He had been there from the beginning: shadowing her on the battlefield, quickly intervening at the first sign of danger, placating her grief, seeking to console her, making her think or laugh…

 _It's kind and generous. He is so considerate and caring_ , she remarked, locking her gaze with his as they stood before each other. Somewhere beyond the parlor they could overhear Wynne and Oghren talking as they headed down the hallway to the foyer.

"…Potions. Morrigan doesn't have the patience for decoctions, but I find these effective and necessary. I'm glad I was able to make these many while we were at the Brecilian Forest. It is a miracle these many made the journey intact in Bodhan's cart."

"Any of your fancy flasks there have ale?" Oghren asked hopefully.

"I wonder if lyrium is the only thing dwarves are immune to: your liver might end up being the true hero of this entire ordeal, dear," Wynne marveled.

Jayne shifted her eyes back to Zevran.

 _Even if his words fail to convey his feelings and thoughts_ , she thought, _his actions never have, have they?_

"Zevran."

 _I don't know why it is that you can be so bold in everything you set out to do, except this_.

The timing was terrible. Larger matters loomed outside that room.

 _I do not want to lose you,_ he'd said somberly.

"There is something I want you to know."

Her hand sought his, their fingers entwining.

"What is it?" he asked nervously.

She raised their hands noting the sharp contrast between her fairness and his coppery skin. She rested his hand over her chest. She held it in place firmly and met his anxious gaze.

"That you are here," she stressed, squeezing his hand tighter, tapping it over her heart. "In my…mind," she smiled tenderly. "So much."

She hoped he would infer her meaning through her playfulness.

His eyebrows rose in surprise, but he remained at a loss for words.

"Are you mocking me?" he hesitated.

She couldn't be sure whether or not he had interpreted her words as a jab at his own clumsy expression of concern, or if he was in disbelief over what she was disclosing.

Below, from the foyer, voices echoed unintelligibly back to them. The others were waiting, ready to forge into Denerim.

"No, I am not," she grinned, leaning closer to kiss his cheek, their hands still clasped together tightly.

She glanced back as she began to move away, heading out towards her room.

He remained confounded, standing still, speechless, in the wake of her confession.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies for the hiatus- I really didn't intend on being away so long. But I reiterate what I've claimed before: Chance is a very special fic to me, I am determined to complete it, and I am grateful for the really supportive and kind people I've met along the way as I've written this.
> 
> The dialogue featuring Eamon and Erlina is from the game. I always found it extremely interesting and thought provoking that Anora's handmaiden was Orlesian.
> 
> And Jayne finally shared her feelings...kinda? They're both very bad at this stating their feelings clearly, but good at the actually caring for each other part, I guess.
> 
> I wanted to thank talented artist and longtime reader Ajir who created a sweet short featuring Zevran, Jayne, and the rest of the gang. You can watch it here: http://lateforerebor.tumblr.com/post/129987207060/a-little-longer-version-i-have-no-idea-if-this  
> Go and you can get that catchy tune stuck in your head too! Thanks Ajir- I hope you know how happy this made me.


	53. Chapter 53

A tense, eerie silence settled among them as they filed out of the Arl's estate into the dark streets of Denerim. The servants had helped, creating a diversion at the front gates, causing a small commotion when a covered cart attempted to leave the estate. It successfully summoned the attention of the guards and any suspicious bystanders and loiterers. Their party slipped out a back entrance, guarded by sentinels who tipped them off to occasional movement in the nearby alleyway.

"Head straight that way. You are likely to run into the occasional drunkard or homeless refugee bumbling about…The city is rife with them," the sentinel explained, betraying mild disgust.

"Hmm...I these alleys? Probably spies," Alistair frowned.

"Yes, but the question is: whose?" Leliana concurred.

"Does it matter?" Zevran interrupted. "They won't be earning their fees tonight," he declared, unsheathing his daggers. The blades glinted in the weak glow of the lanterns at the doorway. He took in a deep breath. "Can you _smell_ it?" he asked them all.

"Yes...the delicate aroma of piss and offal," Oghren grumbled, staring at the slimy water coursing down the cobblestones.

Zevran flashed a sinister grin.

"Exactly. Like the back alley of any city, anywhere in Thedas; I am right at home. Let's see if we can get our new friends to introduce themselves!" he stated, slipping around a shadowy corner.

Jayne beckoned Sten and Morrigan out before the sentinels hastily shut the back gates, all quickly assuming their positions, lest their late prowling alert any lurking informants. After the initial rush of excitement and nervousness, her disciplined training took over almost instinctively: she found herself focused, hyper alert, and calm. As she watched Zevran disappear around the corner, she realized that he, too, was entering a combative mindset: his assassin self, a hardened, dangerous side of him she had glimpsed many times but seldom had any personal exchanges with.

* * *

The ruse at the gates proved successful. They met with no one as they made haste through the back alleys towards the banks of the Drakon River. Once they approached the road running along the canal, still busy with the activity of street merchants and taverns, they broke off into smaller groups so they did not appear too conspicuous as they crossed the bridge in the general direction of the royal palace: the Arl of Denerim's estate was located a stone's throw away from the palace gates.

It was strange, Jayne thought, how despite her focus, she made note of small occurrences around Denerim, fragments of life: the unseasonably warm evening, a child's sooty garments as he wove through the crowd. He sought passage into the taverns in order to sell his wares: in a box he carried small Chantry-issued medallions of Andraste. As they passed a decaying, desolate doorway, the last notes of a melancholy ballad sounded, the last chords fading tremulously into the starry night before light applause burst forth. Just after they crossed the bridge, a disheveled woman of undetermined age approached them in a green dress that might have known better days, offering herself to them for the night and a price, her manner of speech mechanical, monotone. Zevran, she noticed, avoided her eyes. As they passed her by wordlessly, she turned away as if poised over gears, resuming her penant lookout by the bridge. All those details—even the tenuous gleam of the lamps over the damp cobblestones and the raucous voices booming from the taverns—seemed stronger, brighter, wilder to Jayne.

_It's as if I am hearing them for the first time_ , she realized. _Or perhaps, for the last,_ she shivered.

They moved purposefully, not exchanging any words except to occasionally look up or back, to wait and regroup, only to decide on a direction, and break away again.

* * *

The Arl of Denerim's estate was a somber, imposing stone building with narrow, vertical windows apparently devoid of light or signs of life within. Far from being silent, though, they found a crowd of people assembled before the estate's main entrance.

"For the hundredth time," a thunderous voice hushed the crowd threateningly, "his Lordship isn't seeing anyone! You'll have to come back tomorrow!"

The announcement was met with a volley of angry protests and insults hurled at the unfortunate messenger, who stoically resumed his post among his fellow guards.

Jayne surveyed the area, finding that the tumult in front of the Arl's estate afforded them a welcome cover: the guards had their hands full appeasing the angry mob. If they had been noticed at all, they had been written off as a new wave of protestors coming to add their voices to the assembled throng. Alistair sought to catch her attention. He tilted his head towards the left of the gates, where a large cart sat, abandoned on the street. Standing strategically behind the wagon and out of view of the guards was none other than Erlina herself, still in her fine red-colored dress. Morrigan, Leliana, and Wynne attempted to blend in, feigning interest in the passionate exchanges between members of the crowd and the touchy guards. Sten and Oghren remained further back, trying to avoid any notice, while Zevran planted himself by the cart, casually leaning against one of the sides. He crossed his arms and he too, pretended to be absorbed in the ongoing spectacle, but Jayne could tell from the slight tilt of his head towards the ground that he was attentive to any movement from the Queen's handmaiden behind him.

"The servants' entrance is on the other side of the house," she began as Jayne and Alistair approached her. "We must slip past this crowd to reach it." She drew her gaze back towards the main gates. "We'll have to be very careful: Arl Howe is inside."

Jayne nodded, her pulse quickening. She risked one more glance at Zevran—he had turned his head away. He had begun to clap along with the rest of the excited crowd that was growing rowdier as someone towards the front had broken out into an inflammatory jeremiad.

"What's the crowd gathered for?" she puzzled.

Erlina smirked disdainfully.

"The estate is in poor repair. The new Arl, he has not been very prompt in paying his workmen," she revealed contemptuously.

She stepped aside, indicating the path they should take.

"I'll be right behind you."

Alistair appeared to be guessing at her thoughts, as if trying to gauge whether or not she was having second thoughts about their approach.

_Time to act. No turning back._

Jayne sneaked past the handmaiden towards a well-trod path snaking along the left side of the estate. Alistair hissed lightly as she started without him. Movement out of the corner of her eyes revealed that the others quickly noticed and reassembled to follow further behind.

It was madness. Reckless madness. Even in the cover of relative darkness, their trajectory was perilous. They were entering enemy territory. If they were caught, there would be no one to appeal to.

_If we are caught, none of us will survive._

She was possessed by an impulse to stop in her tracks and order Alistair to stay behind, but one glance over her shoulder at the hardened expression on his face told her it would be futile.

* * *

The walls of the estate towered around them, the passageway growing narrower as they coursed towards the servants' entrance. They emerged in a small courtyard, before several statues running along the exterior of the estate. They prepared to rush across it when Leliana issued them a quiet warning, indicating with a hand motion the guard stationed along the lower ramparts.

"Can't you just shoot an arrow through him?" Oghren asked hoarsely.

"I most certainly can, but should I?" she retorted. "It would attract immediate attention."

"How about you ladies?" he continued, turning to Morrigan and Wynne. "Can't you wiggle your fingers and cast a sleeping spell or something?"

"That's not how it works," Wynne explained.

"He's too far away," Morrigan concurred.

"So what are we doin'?" Oghren protested. "Are we kickin' some bad guy arse or are we just standin' here makin' nug-eyes at each other?"

"Just what would you propose we do?" Alistair snapped tersely.

Oghren shrugged.

"I dunno, but if we just stay here we are goin' to be scooped up and dungeoned!"

"That isn't even a word!" Alistair censured him.

"Well, it is _now_! Common came from Dwarven and that means I can make up any crap I please—"

Before Oghren could continue, they noticed Zevran crossing the courtyard by edging along against the wall as stealthily as he could.

"Damn elf!" Oghren huffed, hurrying to catch up to him.

They traveled past the courtyard with their backs against the wall, concealed by the shadows. The guard paced up and down the rampart, his armor clanging lightly, but he did not give any indication of having spotted them. Zevran's arm shot out warningly, though, forcing them to hold still before they rounded the corner. He turned to them and raised four fingers, before pointing them towards the turn.

That was the sign for four enemies up ahead.

"How many?" Oghren whispered. "I couldn't see," he mumbled crossly, trying to look past Sten.

"Sssh!" Alistair implored.

Wynne cast an uneasy glance towards the ramparts, but the guard had paced towards the opposite end, oblivious to their furtive activities.

"Warden?" Zevran asked very softly, his eyes trained on the backs of four patrolmen stationed at the entrance of the estate's extensive rear garden.

Jayne silently pointed to him, Leliana, and Morrigan.

The three nodded, huddling before the turn, gesturing what their intended strategy would be.

With that, Zevran moved forward in a hunched position and emerged beside the guard closest to them. He cast Leliana and Morrigan a hasty nod before revealing himself, his two daggers rapidly slicing the front of the guard's neck. Before the man could let out an agonizing cry, an arrow flew out from the darkness, piercing the chest of another guardsman who then collapsed to the ground on his knees at the same time the bright flash of an ice spell immobilized the two others. Zevran spun his daggers dexterously before attempting to bury the blade into the chest of one of the guards that had been immobilized by the ice spell.

The blade slipped, unable to penetrate the icy barrier encasing the man. Zevran puzzled and attempted another stab only to find himself rapping lightly on the thick layer of ice.

"Morrigan!" he rasped at her in an annoyed tone. "How am I supposed to finish them off now?"

"Ice spells are not my specialty!" she growled, equally peeved. "I would rather cause combustions, but that would hardly be discreet!"

"So what do we do now? Place them next to the other statues? I can hear the other guards already! 'How interesting these new garden decorations! Their likeness to Privates Smith and Jones is _uncanny_!'" Zevran teased.

Sten and Alistair piled the two other corpses out of the way while Leliana and Wynne tapped the thick layer of ice around the guards. Without a further word, Sten unsheathed his sword.

"Wait," Wynne cried out in a half whisper.

He ignored her and rammed Asala forcefully through the first, shattering the ice.

"I was going to say that the men are probably already dead from the shock," Wynne sighed.

Oghren guffawed.

"It's what I call a chilly reception," he added mirthfully.

Sten struck the second guardsman, shoving the blade through his midsection.

Zevran smirked.

Jayne also unsheathed her sword, the quietness and solitude of the garden suspicious. Four guards in front of a garden gate had hardly been the army Howe had supposedly been amassing for protection. The moonlight cast a pale blue gleam over the neglected garden revealing beds that had grown tangled with weeds. Overgrown grass crowded the paths, springing between the stones, unruly and unwelcoming. Large, discarded marble planters littered a corner and a desolate fountain lay still and silent, its elegant statues of shield maidens overlooking the dark, murky water.

"It's Antivan tradition to throw coins in such a well as this. Supposedly it brings one luck," Zevran mused as they examined the desolate corner of the garden.

"Well, hope you're ready to throw a few bars of gold in." Oghren examined the malodorous standing water. "We're gonna need all the luck we can get."

"We will be fine," Jayne replied in a curt manner.

A slender silhouette appeared between some overgrown bushes along the entrance. They recognized Erlina, hurriedly rushing down the path.

"Well done," she murmured, catching up with them. "Doesn't look like you ran into any trouble," she added.

"We ran into a few guards, but they're cooling off now," Oghren remarked cheerfully, seeking to goad Zevran into one of their usual exchange of double meanings. He only managed to elicit a perfunctory smile, as Zevran's eyes apprehensively scanned the garden for any sign of movement coming towards them. Erlina led them towards a side entrance, pointing to the sentinels stationed before a hefty wooden door.

"I can distract the guards, but you must move quickly."

"There are only two guards," Sten noted.

"More guards patrol every hour. If they find these two missing, they will know…how you say? Something is amiss," Erlina warned them.

"I do not mean to interrupt, but did you not mention something about disguises?" Zevran asked, raising an eyebrow.

At that, the others groaned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Dialogue with Erlina straight from the game, as well as the commotion before the Arl's estate and Zevran's comment about tossing coins into the fountain in the garden. For some reason, this particular quest/passage has been harder to write. I remember that when I played it, I was so pumped up to go get that damned Howe that I was singularly focused...and a lot of details kind of slipped away...No worries, though. I'm getting there. Thank you for reading and for not giving up on me! :-)


	54. Chapter 54

The group hid behind a low stone wall along the garden.

"I have to say, it is quite bold of Erlina to do this. If the guardsmen do not fall for her act, it ends here for her," Leliana surmised in a hushed voice as she crouched low.

"How do I look?" Zevran wondered, adjusting his new Fereldan guard disguise.

"You'll have to let Jayne or Alistair do the talking or your accent will give us away," Wynne cautioned.

"Don't worry, my dear Wynne. I intend merely to indulge in the art of imitation and carry myself with the same oafish demeanor," he explained. "I have had ample opportunity to observe the type, as well, you see, since Alistair has provided me with such an interesting study—"

"Sssh!" Alistair hushed them impatiently.

They all remained in silence as Erlina breached the distance from the quiet garden to the small side door guarded by two burly sentinels. As the guards took notice of her, she hurried her pace, her voice breathless and panicked.

"Oh, but you must come!" she cried. "I saw something! By the fountain! I think it was a Darkspawn!" she improvised, gesticulating wildly.

Jayne bit her lip. Oghren slapped his forehead as Alistair and Leliana groaned.

"Why did she go with Darkspawn? That's going to mobilize Howe's entire army," Oghren rasped.

"It's actually a very clever maneuver," Zevran whispered. "She's obviously not seen as a serious menace or she'd never be given this much freedom to roam about. They probably see her as a nuisance, but not much more. To them, she's just an elf and a handmaiden. Remember these are Fereldan guards."

"Will you two shut up! You will have ample time to ponder and chronicle these events from your dungeon cells if you do not!" Morrigan finally interrupted.

Jayne focused her attention once more on the befuddled guards ahead, staring at each other and exchanging words she could barely discern.

"They will drag us all in the ground to be eaten!" Erlina continued.

"Should we call for help?" one of the guards asked.

Oghren shook his head apprehensively.

"Did you fall off a cart full of stupid?" the other guard retorted. "Call for _help_? So they could see us act like scared little girls 'cause of some…knife-eared wench?"

Zevran offered them a tart grin.

"See? What did I tell you! The ignorance of others is always my gain," he murmured.

"They will eat us all alive!" Erlina wailed. "Please! Get help!"

"If there is something there and we don't sound the alarm, we'll look worse than scared," the first guard reasoned.

The group remained tensely quiet.

The second guard exhaled loudly, "Andraste's Holy Knickers…Fine! We'll check the courtyard. If it will keep you from wetting yourself."

"Oh, it won't," Zevran uttered softly, grinning menacingly. Oghren suppressed a guffaw.

"There's nothing there!" the second guard guessed patronizingly as he glanced towards the direction of the garden wall.

"Thank you!" Erlina announced, feigning enormous relief. She turned towards the garden and a defiant expression crossed her face as her eyes darted past their hiding place. She headed towards the path leading further away from them and pointed. "Oh, it was over here!" she shouted, indicating the walled entrance to the fountain they had passed earlier.

The men followed her begrudgingly.

Jayne watched them pass the wall hurriedly. As soon as they were out of sight, she signaled the group.

"Now!" she ordered, facing the unguarded entrance.

* * *

They followed a narrow hall to a small and dim foyer where they were supposed to wait for Erlina's return. According to her, it was the quietest entrance in the estate—the fact it led to the garden in the stronghold made it a less important entrance-one that required less surveillance in face of the protesters at the front of the estate.

"What's our cover?" Alistair turned to Jayne. In the distance, voices spoke animatedly. A warm glow emanated from a large room down a second hallway branching out from the foyer. Jayne had to remind herself that they had invaded a fortress. It was not going to be easy by any stretch of the imagination.

"Like Erlina said, if anyone inside the castle asks, we are a patrol waiting for the sentinels to return from investigating a report of Darkspawn. Apparently, Howe has been adding so many guards to his roster that new faces won't raise suspicion if we proceed calmly."

She peered at Oghren and Sten, their disguises incomplete and ill-fitted to their sizes. At least they were staying to the back of the group. They waited silently for Erlina to return. In the meantime, two servants appeared in the hallway, hauling baskets of linens. They remained impassive, Alistair nonchalantly acknowledging them with a quick nod. They passed them without much notice, focused on their task. Jayne's heartbeat pulsed hard, the rush deafening in her ears.

_We are in Howe's territory. One misstep on our part is all it will take…_

The side door opened and Erlina finally appeared, to their enormous relief.

"Ah!" she interjected with annoyance. "It took me _forever_ to be rid of those two!"

She signaled the group to follow her through the door she had just come from.

"You must be careful now," she advised them. "The servants, they will not look closely at anyone in uniform. All guards are alike to a cook, no? But you should not draw attention to yourself!"

They all let their gazes land on both Sten and Oghren.

"This is where we must part ways," Jayne stated firmly. "Both of you must stay back along with Wynne. Should something go wrong, we will need you to act quickly."

"We have your back, Warden," Oghren pat his mace.

"Having our back includes escaping back to Arl Eamon and informing him of our capture," Jayne reminded him. "If we are captured, you must not try to rescue us. This is a fortress—do not act brashly or foolishly."

"I would say t'is too late for that," Morrigan quipped.

"Understood." Wynne nodded.

"Down to the left, the hallway ends in a stairwell leading to another garden exit. It has been abandoned and is like an old storeroom—you will have to unblock the door—but it is deserted and unguarded. Should the alarm be sounded, you must exit through that way. After that, you are on your own," Erlina apologized.

They all exchanged uneasy glances.

"Right," Alistair said curtly.

"See you on the other side!" Oghren grinned, saluting them with a fist thump to his chest.

"Be careful," Wynne said, giving them a parting glance before she rounded the corner.

"May you be victorious," Sten declared.

Erlina slipped down the hall and watched cautiously as the three disappeared down the stairwell. When she returned a few moments later, she wasted no time.

"Most of the guards are new. They won't know you for a stranger at a glance." They followed her as she crossed the foyer. "It is best you keep your distance from all of them…and try to blend in," she recommended, her voice low. They halted before the brightly lit entryway. It was a kitchen, Jayne noticed. Inside she could hear the clatter of dishes and silverware, a busy exchange over smoke and sizzling over a roaring fire.

"Andraste help us all," Erlina commented, before stepping boldly into the room.

* * *

It helped that most estates in Ferelden followed a similar floor plan. Jayne knew that once they crossed several rooms, they would find themselves in a courtyard, much like in Highever. Erlina had entreated them to meet her at the end of the courtyard, before the room where Anora was being held captive.

"Won't it be heavily guarded?"

"It already is, Wardens," Erlina had explained. "The room is at the heart of the fortress, in the middle of the guards' quarters. "But this is where your disguises will serve you well: although there are no sentinels standing guard continuously, I have often been accosted by different patrols demanding that I not linger at the door. Head in that direction and I will be standing there, giving you the pretext you need to approach my Lady's quarters.

It helped that their first exposure to the fortress was through the bustling kitchen, past the banter of the cooks and their helpers busily attending to the endless meals that needed to be prepared for all those guards. Jayne and Erlina led the group calmly, walking past the kitchen hands who paused only long enough for them to pass, casting them reproachful looks, their lips tightly pressed.

She broke out into a cold sweat when they stepped out into a dim room where soldiers were still gathered as they finished their dinners. She could sense her companions stiffen as well.

 _We must act as if we belong here,_ she quickly recovered, clearing her throat and making her way through the room towards the exit, catching snippets of conversation about Howe, the estate, and the protesters outside. The others stayed close, moving as purposefully. At one point Jayne noticed one of the guards had peered up from a conversation with his colleagues to observe them with curiosity. For an unnerving moment, she even thought the man would intercept them as they wove between the long wooden tables. It was then that Zevran looked up as well and feigned to be waving jovially at someone further past the man. The man quickly turned his head over his shoulder and with a shrug, returned to his conversation.

"Well-played," Leliana whispered approvingly.

They moved slowly, allowing a larger party of guards to cut them off. The exit to the rooms led to a cobblestoned path winding around the fortress. They found themselves at last in the courtyard. Nearby the metallic clash of swords and the crack of colliding shields resounded from a room where combat drills were being practiced. They glimpsed the interior of barracks, all their doors held wide open to air out the stale rooms. Jayne led them down the path, occasionally turning around, seeking to confirm they were moving in the right direction, and disguising her nervousness with a decisive stride. Erlina had not misled them: the guards they did cross did not pay them much heed.

"Why do you think there is so much turnover?" Alistair wondered.

"Because we are in the middle of a Blight," Morrigan replied.

"Most of these guards might be only staying for as long as it takes to amass the required coin to escape Ferelden," Jayne whispered.

"Such conditions should make for interesting shifts in alliances, as well…" Zevran surmised.

"What shifts in alliances?" Alistair puzzled.

"Bribes!" Zevran huffed. "Must I spell everything out for you?"

"If you meant bribes then you should have said bribes!" he complained.

Erlina, to their relief, awaited them at the next turn, standing impatiently before the arched doorway, large red gonfalons hanging on the walls over it.

"Follow me," she urged them.

She led them down another side hallway off the hall's entrance. They paused before a hulking wooden door—a silvery sheen coursed over its surface. Morrigan exhaled heavily.

"This does not bode well."

Erlina leaned towards it.

"The Grey Wardens are here, my Lady," she announced, peering past their heads to reassure herself of their privacy.

A muffled voice responded.

"Thank the Maker!"

Again, Jayne felt her pulse quicken. She recognized the voice—a voice she had heard speak on many a formal occasion before. It was Anora. Of that, she was certain.

"I would greet you properly, but I'm afraid we've had a setback," the voice continued.

"Oh. No crumpets? I say we should leave," Zevran muttered in a low voice. Leliana and Alistair shot him murderous glares. "But surely—who thinks about etiquette in the middle of…" The peeved looks did not subside. "I really wish the dwarf were here," he mumbled, falling back somewhat and crossing his arms.

"What sort of setback?" Jayne asked, approaching the door. It rippled with pulsing light.

"My host was not content with leaving me under a heavy guard. He sealed the door by magic!"

"How do we open it?" Jayne asked, turning to Morrigan. Before she could reply, the voice inside spoke again.

"Find the mage who cast the spell. He'll most likely be at Howe's side."

Jayne glanced towards Zevran. _Expect mages, too_ , he'd warned her earlier. Far from his usual self-satisfaction, though, his grim expression betrayed no delight upon being correct once more.

"She is right, you know." Morrigan contemplated the glowing spell. "Any attempts to undo this spell not only would fail, but alert the caster, as well. T'is better to find the mage."

"And how do you propose to get him to undo this?" Alistair challenged her.

She summoned a burst of flame from her palm.

"Like this," she said briskly.

"Fine. We will be back soon," Jayne declared.

"Thank you, Grey Warden. My prayers go with you," she offered.

"How helpful! Fill your quiver with that, Leliana," Zevran teased quietly. She cast him a dirty look.

Erlina stepped away from the door, a pained look on her tired face.

"Howe will probably be in his rooms. They're at the end of the hall, on the left," she added helpfully.

Erlina walked up to her and carefully handed her a metal ring laden with keys.

"This should assist you."

"How did you obtain this?" Leliana asked, surprised.

"Let's just say I called in a favor from the Head Housekeeper."

"Must have been one heck of a favor!" Alistair marveled as Jayne took the ring.

"I am sure you reassured her well. Are we correct to assume aforementioned Housekeeper is probably many miles from here as we speak?"

"On her way to Orlais, as a matter of fact."

"Of course." Zevran nodded.

Erlina faced the group.

"I will remain here, beside my Lady. To do otherwise would arouse too much suspicion," she explained. "Please: help her," she entreated them.

* * *

They proceeded, walking past the mostly unfurnished, gloomy and desolate rooms. The estate of the Arl of Denerim was large, almost cavernous. Jayne found it strange that Howe would have chosen quarters somewhere so central to the estate's military operations. Typically, a noble family had its rooms separate from the nerve center of the fortress, where dungeons and treasuries were closely guarded.

But then again, Howe no longer had a family beside him. Although not a hint of pity rose within her, she was able to discern how he had, with only himself to blame, isolated himself from all of his family—the Brylands as well as the Howes.

At the end of the hall, they faced three different doors.

"Which one?" Alistair wondered.

"What do we do now?" Morrigan asked.

"Look, these doors work to our advantage. We can shut them behind us depending on what we find," Zevran insinuated. "But standing out here scratching our chins is not going to yield much, no?"

"Yes, you are right. Except that all the doors all locked," Leliana concluded, cautiously pushing against a large door lacking a proper knob after ascertaining that she could hear nothing from the other side. Jayne took out her ring of keys and tried fitting the larger ones into the keyhole in the door before them. Her hands trembled and her mind felt jumbled as she attempted to wedge what evidently did not fit into the lock.

"Shall I, or shall you, my dear?" Zevran finally asked Leliana after a few moments of anxious waiting.

"It's a heavy door and it opens from the inside," she observed. "No visible hinges…Rather pointless to attempt kicking it open."

"Kicking the door down? And here I thought you would appeal to that Orlesian savoire faire!" Zevran ribbed her.

"Do you have a better idea?"

"Not only an idea: I have a proper torsion wrench and a few picks," he added, reaching into his belt pouch."

"I never said I was going to kick down the door," Leliana huffed, reaching into her own belt pouch and pulling out a small set of keys.

"Skeleton keys?" Zevran said with a hint of jealousy. She grinned. Alistair cast Jayne a nervous glance.

"Which assassin comes with the best accessories?" she muttered.

Zevran arched an eyebrow cockily, even as Leliana attempted to fit one of her keys into the keyhole.

"It depends, my friend. What do you mean by _best_? Because I think our Warden appreciates my excellent equip—"

"Alistair, keep an eye out on any patrols headed this way," Jayne interrupted, watching as Leliana breezed through her entire set of keys without success.

"The lock is more complicated than I thought," Leliana noted in a troubled tone, slipping the set of keys back into her pouch. Zevran edged past her and deftly prodded the small wrench and a pick into the lock, angling the pick this way and that, attempting to listen carefully to any clicking. They watched him struggle as he jabbed the tools into the keyhole with mounting frustration.

"Well?..." Leliana provoked.

"If all the locks are like this one, we are in trouble," he decided.

"Now what do we do?" Leliana wondered.

"I wish we had the dwarf to use as a battering ram." Zevran pursed his lips.

Both Leliana and Zevran turned their despondent gazes back to the lock. Alistair, standing at the end of the hallway, turned to the group with a panicked expression.

"I think someone is coming!" he announced in a low voice.

"Finding us here is going to arouse suspicions." Jayne paced between the doors indecisively. "What if we try this other door," she began to suggest. Morrigan grumbled impatiently and pushed past the other two.

"Someone give me a key—any key!" she ordered, extending her hand.

Leliana quickly fished out her skeleton keys once more. Wordlessly, Morrigan seized one and ran her fingers down the metal shaft, causing it to glow. Satisfied with her handiwork, she stuck the key into the lock and after a few moments, turned it, with some effort. To their surprise, the bolt rolled back and the door clicked open. Jayne signaled to Alistair and they all slipped past the door into a narrow passageway. Behind them, Leliana shut the door gently and they all waited, eyes affixed to her stern expression as she held her ear against the door. Outside, armor clanked noisily and boots pounded over the cobblestones. The small commotion, however, never halted or even lingered by the doors they had just been standing between. It wasn't until they heard the soldiers march away in the opposite direction that Jayne realized she had been holding her breath.

"Where are we?" Alistair asked. The room was windowless, stuffy and dark. "Are there any torches we could use?"

"I am sure Morrigan could solve this problem as well," Zevran sniffed peevishly.

"T'is not my problem if you resent magic users," she retorted, a spark of fire erupting over her palm. The flame cast a faint glow over their new surroundings. Jayne tried to take stock of where they were: some kind of corridor leading into a larger, vaulted room, she gathered.

"It's not that I resent magic users," Zevran attempted to excuse himself. "It's just that you mages…It's rather inelegant, you see. Leliana and I have taken the time to meticulously learn our craft and you just barge in, mumble a few words, wiggle your fingers, and without any finesse, you open the lock."

"I am sure that Howe's guards would have appreciated your— _failed_ , I should add—finesse! I succeeded in unlocking the door, we have escaped, and thanks to me, the chances that you will live to become the subject of some bawdy ballad someday have just improved," Morrigan explained haughtily, moving forward and lighting two torches ensconced in opposite sides of the corridor.

"Where in the Maker's name are we?" Leliana uttered softly.

"Better yet, where does this corridor lead?" Alistair took one of the torches and stepped forth.

A musty odor clung to the room as they entered it—although the ceiling soared over them, it was a smaller room. At first, Jayne became aware of the crates stacked along the walls. It wasn't until she approached them that she noticed the piles of golden coins strewn over the ground.

It was a treasury of some kind, she gathered.

"Under other circumstances, I would say this has been a most successful mission," Zevran noted, his eyes widening at the display of valuables so casually stored.

"Don't take any of it!" Alistair cautioned. "We don't want to be accused of stealing if we are caught!"

Leliana grimaced.

"Alistair, I think if we're caught, the fact we stole some gold will be the least of our worries."

They all turned their heads at a loud clang, finding Jayne crouching near a corner, a golden goblet rolling out over the ground towards them.

"Warden?" Zevran asked, approaching her warily.

Jayne turned her head to face them.

"This is all stolen," she announced somberly. Her hand trembled as she reached for the goblet, gingerly turning it so that the crest engraved on it was visible: two laurel branches forming a circlet of sorts.

A strange unease possessed her—a heaviness spread through her and caused her to shudder even as an unpleasant flush prickled her skin. Those golden goblets had belonged to her family, had graced their table at countless dinners. She lifted one of the crate's lids and peered inside. As she pulled out the handful of coins, she sought to discern the effigy upon it, trying to decipher whether she was staring at more laurels or not. Instead, she found another crest: a stylized Chantry sun, three diamonds, and a familiar chief-cut shield.

"The Kendells," Jayne muttered, turning a coin in her hand. "This is Urien's family crest."

"The former Arl of Denerim," Alistair concurred.

She stared stonily at the coin.

"Howe has amassed a small fortune by confiscating—no, by _looting_ — the gold of his foes," she told them. "Some of these coins were struck in Highever; they could have only come from my father's treasury." Her gloved hand brushed over the stony ground. "Howe ransacked Highever's coffers, took advantage of the Arl of Denerim's demise…For what? For a semblance of power? How does he intend to enjoy the fruits of his treachery? The man is so covetous, so blinded by the prospect of power that he will even risk the well-being of those whom he seeks to rule. Does he fail to understand that all these entrapments of power are worth nothing if the Blight comes to pass? Is he so deluded?"

The others remained silent.

"All these nobles…For shame!" she seethed. "Eamon is forced to call a Landsmeet because none of them has had the decency, the moral fortitude to stand up to Loghain despite the responsibility of serving Ferelden that they have been entrusted with. Their silence, their lack of action in the face of this monstrous alliance is akin to complicity and acceptance. How can they allow this to pass? They fear standing up to a king killer more than they fear meeting their deaths at the hands of Darkspawn. Is it pride? Greed? How far we have fallen." She placed the goblet upright and looked longingly at the crest. "Sometimes," she began, turning to face Alistair, "I wonder if any of it is worth our efforts."

Leliana stepped towards her.

"Jayne, surely you don't mean that! Think of all the innocents—all the people who are at the mercy- who have no control or say over—"

"I know, Leliana. I know," she replied tiredly, standing up at last. "Ultimately, the only reason we fight is for Ferelden's people. Not its rulers, who would run it into the ground in all their cowardly and short-sighted ambition. They do not merit their titles."

She faced them.

"A Blight, at least, is honest in its intent. Its evil is never disguised or apologetic. This, what has happened to Ferelden's rulers, is a poison of a different ilk."

She cast a parting glance at the solitary goblet.

"It is time to find Howe," she said sharply, making her way past them.

"Where to now?" Alistair called after her.

She had a suspicion. She swept her hand over the walls, pressing her palms against different sections. Leliana appeared to revive, understanding what Jayne was seeking, and began to do the same. After a few moments, the bard peered up at them as a loud creak echoed and a section of the wall slid back, an old mechanism springing into motion, revealing a dim stairwell leading downwards.

"Who comes?" a voice called up to them ominously from further below.

"Follow me," Jayne ordered them, disappearing into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anora's dialogue is straight from the game, as well as Erlina's exchange with the guards.
> 
> Sorry for the delay in updating. It's shameless...is there anything I can say? I am writing-and this story has been plotted to the end-but it takes me a while to edit, tweak, revise...especially since work has been demanding and leaves me with little time-and energy, honestly-to do all these things I love. I hope to have time soon to write more and to catch up on all the fics I enjoy so much.
> 
> To everyone who has stuck by this story for so long, THANK YOU. Thanks for the comments, despite the lack of updates in a while. It is the best motivation to see that people still care and it gets me fired up and makes me sit on my tush and get cracking.
> 
> Be well and see you soon. Promise! :-)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I think I love you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6556654) by [ajir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajir/pseuds/ajir)




End file.
